


The Velvet Sun

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1920's London, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against the backdrop of the Roaring Twenties, Harry Styles, the disillusioned son of a shamed aristocrat has been sent to London to avoid a scandal that has sent Cheshire’s elite into a gossiping frenzy. Alone in a new city, Harry’s only solace is paying late night visits to a tucked-away speakeasy, where he finds himself being pulled into a haze of smoke and gin cocktails, flapper girls and jazz bands.</p><p>It's there, he meets a seemingly carefree boy with sharp blue eyes and a devilish grin, whom unwittingly starts to breathe technicolor back into the dark corners of Harry’s life, and perhaps his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii :)
> 
> Okay, so this fic is very likely going to turn into a historically inaccurate mess, my apologies in advance! I'm not sure what this is, other than something very self-indulgent and to have a go at a different time period. It's a cluster in my head so I hope it makes sense! 
> 
> The name of the speakeasy is a real twenties' themed club in London but other than that...everything is completely made up :)
> 
> Title is taken from 'On Top' by The Killers.

_Old Money - Lana Del Rey_

* * *

 

A treacherous hint of sunlight sneaks in behind the netted curtains into the dreary and faded confines of Harry’s bedroom, rudely disturbing him from his preferred state of serene unconsciousness, free of all that is expected of him, and all that people insist on saying about him, whether he’s present or otherwise. Not that he particularly cares what they're saying anymore. He’s learnt, albeit harshly as of late, to ignore the petty spite and the constant gossiping, but still. It does become more than slightly irritating after a while, especially when listening to the same sort of whispered insults at tedious dinner parties, and having to accept backhanded compliments, spoken to his face during phony niceties, horribly grating on the remaining nerves he has left.

Which frankly amount to _none_ whatsoever these colourless days.

Or perhaps that’s merely London’s style (during the daytime at least).

It’s still relatively dark inside the room—or _his_  room, rather, he reminds himself bitterly, but unfortunately and to Harry’s dismay, the sun has spoken and has decided to rise yet again.

(Even the sun is a deceitful thing.)

He’d much rather night was permanent, can hardly stand having to exist in daylight. The world at night is so much more alive and exciting, roaring and mysterious. The day involves a series of tedious, dull errands he wishes would disappear, usually consisting of having tea with someone or other, pretending to be interested in whatever nonsense they have to say. Riveting. 

He shifts his long, gangly body over and buries his sleep-creased face into his pillow, releasing a heavy muffled sigh into the fabric, then heaves himself back up for air, moving unceremoniously to lie on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he rubs vigorously at the sockets with the corners of his scrunched up fists, tousled chocolate strands of hair framing his pale, stoic face like a halo.

The room’s general interior is almost entirely ashen, which matches his mood really; it’s pallid, the walls devoid of life since there are no pictures hung up like they were at home, every inch a playbook of their lives, despite his father’s distaste for _clutter_ as he put it. (Though his mother never took any notice). There are no portraits or art, or photo frames at all. A large bed in which he’s currently sprawled out in takes up most of the space, where only a few mahogany tables, polished to pristine flawlessness are scattered around the room, single white roses displayed in ugly, patterned vases. It’s sorely lacking personality and presents little to no tell-tale signs of anyone ever having lived in it before.

Perhaps they haven’t.

Still. There’s a hollowness, a detachment about the place that Harry doesn’t like. Or maybe that’s just Harry. He’s become so indifferent, lacking interest in practically everything since he moved here. Barely even eats, substituting food with the copious amounts of alcohol he drinks. But not even all the liquor he can get his hands on proves to be enough to shake him out of this state, or at least never for nearly as long as he would wish it to.

He’s lost in this perpetual mood of disillusionment, bitterness and a frustrating inability to feel something about. Well. _Anything,_ to be honest.

Unless he thinks about his father, that is. Then, it’s an entirely different story. He connects his father with nothing but a cloud of red mist that seems to follow Harry around more often than not whenever he’s reminded, or hears his father’s name mentioned in passing. Harry’s realised he’s growing progressively more angry as the days drag on (and decidedly more hungover), more short-tempered than he ever used to be, that much is certain. Definitely lives up to the ‘stroppy so and so’ his mother used to call him whenever he threw a tantrum as a child. He misses her terribly.

These days he’s a cagey nightmare hiding behind a seemingly innocent face and bags full of charm. (When he _wants_ to be charming, of course).

He still hasn’t heard from his father since it happened. Since Harry’s world came crashing down to an abrupt halt. Hasn’t even attempted to get in touch with his only son. It’s fine though. He prefers it honestly.

Harry has been staying here in Kensington for over a month now, and he is still yet to grow used to the musty, foreign scent of this house which means nothing to Harry except knowing it to be merely another cage to put in him. (First having to be sent to friends of the family, The Paynes, who graciously allowed him to stay for a couple of weeks, and then was moved again to another relative who was so fussy about literally anything Harry did, he could hardly stand it).

So now he’s here in London.

The furthest away from Cheshire he’s ever been.

It also doesn't help matters (or his ever-deteriorating mood) that he’s rarely given permission to venture off to anywhere in the city he might deem more fitting to his less than proper interests, simply told in no uncertain terms to lay low for the foreseeable future until his uncle—who just drinks whiskey and smokes cigars by the fireplace when he’s not at membership only Men’s Clubs – sees fit. He’s not sure exactly what he does if he’s honest—other than drink and smoke himself into oblivion. (Not that Harry can talk with the things he’s been getting up to recently).

Nevermind the fact that all the disgrace and shame brought upon the Styles clan (once one of the most respected and well-liked families in Holmes Chapel) took place bloody miles away from London. But apparently news travels fast amongst the elite, as it always does. Nosy, snooty socialites are presently driving themselves into a gossiping frenzy over his father’s mountain of gambling debts, the multiple affairs he’s been having for years (that apparently his mother even knew about), and his ever worsening alcoholism.

Then there’s the tiny, trivial detail that they lost their dearly beloved house. Harry’s real home. The place in which he grew up. A place which he loved. A place where the comforting, syrupy smells of breakfast and freshly brewed tea filled his lungs, his mother’s saccharine perfume, and the warm, joyous sounds of laughter and chaotic parlor games that lit up the rooms. Where the walls held soothing familiarity, held comfort and security, harbouring the endless, affectionate memories Harry had of his childhood, and of his life before everything turned sour and tainted and empty.

But it’s pleasant he supposes. The house he’s living in now. Has all the sumptuousness one would expect of a London residency in Kensington, West London. But it’s so impersonal. So quiet and so... Far away.

So much so that he’s beginning to despise the daytime with a passion. A permanent scowl is plastered to his face at all hours of the day. Everything feels increasingly disconnected and depressing. It’s a wonder he can even sleep at night (not that he really does much). He simply couldn’t get a wink of sleep the first few nights he spent here, first weeks even, missing his own bed desperately, far too aware that his pillow smelled nothing like himself nor his mother’s sugary scent that used to linger on the fabric of his often daring, sometimes a tad ostentatious taste in suits, ones that his mother always complimented him on, even if others disapproved with their sneering glances and hushed comments.

A pang of homesickness beats at his chest.

His mother calls as often as possible. Unlike his father. The surprise at that is non-existent.

The incident that catapulted Harry’s pleasant life into turmoil was at a high society event. Tall flutes of champagne were glittering around a bright, warmly lit room in every immaculate corner, standing atop floating silver platters. Every member of Cheshire’s most privileged, aristocratic families were there, mindlessly participating in dull, pointless and insincere chatter that had Harry rolling his eyes to the point of being painful and silently wishing for the ground to open up and take him with it. Harry, of course, had been under obligation to attend, and sat on a couch between two young ladies who were nice enough to speak to, lovely even, but Harry couldn’t even bring himself to at least try and converse with them, not even about ridiculous nonsense he’d often laugh about with his friends.

Not that night.

There was something gnawing at his mind, anxiety clawing at his skin, and he was wishing he were anywhere else but in the place he was sat in that moment, empty eyes staring at the false smiles and absently listening to their exaggerated giggles and unkind sniggers, silently loathing the small, dispersed crowd taking pitiful sips of sparkling clear liquor, the rims of their glasses barely even meeting vibrantly painted lips, cigars hanging from mustached mouths.

Then like clockwork, his father abruptly stumbled into the room, instantly causing a commotion, drunk out of his mind, slurring his words and raising his voice, his previously smoothed down hair a lopsided mess, dinner jacket and collar in disarray, bowtie hanging loose.

Harry grimaced as he took in the sight in front of his eyes. A grey haired man's eyes immediately found him, whipping his head from a conversation with a brunette lady in a shimmering gold, beaded dress. He had screamed bloody murder at his father, demanding his far too overdue payments, what he claimed Mr Styles owed him and countless others in their circle. Harry had watched with wide, horrified eyes as a fight broke out, a few glass flutes and tumblers smashing to the floor, startled yelps escaping scandalized women in their evening attire, vivacious gemstone and feather clad dresses, all wearing the latest liberating fashions. Several men in black and white, and grey three piece suits attempted to break it up, one even throwing a punch at another plump, middle-aged man, fuming and red-faced, desperate to get his hands on Harry’s father, who cowered in on himself, shouting out obscenities and other indecipherable words. At which point his mother stormed in, expression harder than he’d ever seen it before, her habitually soft and kind face nowhere to be found. She dragged him out by his dinner jacket, accompanied by two other men Harry didn’t recognize, and his sister fell quickly into step behind them, expression troubled but apologetic, discreetly shooting her younger brother a quick glance that said _it will be alright_.

But it wasn't alright. God, Harry didn’t know if anything would ever be alright again. The days of his idyllic family life were well and truly over.

Things are generally just terrible. Oh joy.

Harry sits up on the side of his bed, shirtless and hair ruffled from sleep, letting his bare feet touch the cold floorboards, which creak loudly as he moves to get up. The day ahead would be another waste as far as Harry was concerned, waiting on his uncle to get dressed to accompany him to the club to go over some legal details regarding his father’s debts that Harry guesses his uncle may have to take care of. Or something similar. He doesn’t know. Prefers not to know how his father will get out of this alive or at least unscathed. Or not. Most likely he won’t. Perhaps he’ll even go to jail. It’s what he deserves anyway. After all the lies and deceit and general disregard for anyone apart from himself.

His sharp intake and exhale of breath momentarily fills the discomforting silence. Harry doesn’t even remember the last time he spoke to anyone. Like, properly. (Apart from the occasional phone call from his best friend Liam – though even those are getting more sparse). Hasn’t had an actual conversation that didn’t involve the odd grunt or insult poorly disguised as a lousy joke. Or a simple good morning, or bloody hell, even a goodnight.

Something unpleasant twists in his stomach as he’s reminded of home once again.

And now Harry is stuck here in London, rainy and grim and grey and particularly unfriendly, he’s noted.

Apart from the clubs.

The speakeasies. The nightlife. Where he’s regularly greeted by a sea of beaded fringed dresses, daring and positively scandalous, fancy three-piece white suits, some tweed, some pinstriped in every quirky colour one can think of. Bowties and charismatic jackets. Every hat, tie, feather, bright lipstick shade is another piece of style representing and showing off an additional hue of somebody’s personality.

To be free. Wild. Outrageous. A new golden age. 

They’re quite brilliant. So easy to become lost in it. The relaxed, stylish, hedonism of it all. The pleasure-seeking. The numbing the senses with a range of gin made cocktails. The self-indulgent carelessness in acting however one wishes without consequence or judgement. It’s the only place Harry can relax and truly be himself, (or at least try to be in part – some desires are still best kept hidden from prying eyes and wandering mouths), generally free from stuffy restrictions and rules of society. Relishing in the casual lifestyle, an addictive haze of noise and laughter, real and genuine, all kinds of people from all walks of life, flocking to these speakeasy nightclubs amidst the enticing mist of cigarette smoke and the loose, invigorating thrill of live bands playing jazz into the early hours of the morning. Enjoying the beats and the trumpets thumping into his veins, and the copious amounts of scotch and dry martinis, pretty cocktails on offer to be consumed until the heart is content, swimming through his pumping bloodstream.

There’s no one here to tell him no, is the thing. No one to tell him what he can and can’t do. And he loves it. Loves the chaos and the calm. The glitz and the glamour. The way nobody seems to care who you are or where you’re from. Not here. Not underground. Not in a speakeasy.

It’s what he’s been doing most nights since he discovered The Candlelight Club last week. He sneaks out of the house when everyone is safely sound asleep, his uncle's mechanical snores vibrating against the bare walls, and he makes his way into the city, dressed in his one of his best, three-piece pinstriped suits, a black satin bowtie at his collar, heading to the brilliant bright lights, buzzing with excitement. Seeking out the hidden, tucked away speakeasy in a darkened corner of London, his one and only solace, stepping through its inconspicuous doors, ready to forget, albeit just for one more night until the next time.

Harry opens his draw and takes out a cigarette, padding slowly to the window, ajar and wafting the murky scent of dampness and autumn drizzle through the bedroom. He cups his hand over the cigarette and lights it with a match. He holds it loosely between his fingers and inhales a deep drag as his empty green eyes flutter shut, focusing hard on the club’s flickering name in dim red lights, the animated atmosphere that he’ll be back inside in another sixteen hours or so.

The longer he shuts his eyes, and the deeper he inhales, the more prominent the memory of a pair of lingering, sharp blue eyes stay painted behind the backs of Harry's weary eyelids. A mischievous grin pulls at a blue eyed boy's mouth, calling to him like a moth to a flame, ready and waiting with all the well-hidden, fervent desires that creep along the dark and untouched edges of Harry's mind.

**

Harry sits glowering on the steps, clad in a black suit with faint, white pinstripes and polished pointy shoes. The street lamps' lights visible in the toes of the surface, as he sits hunched in front of the partly open entrance to his Kensington home (it still doesn’t feel in any way shape or form his home; more like a lonely stop off point before he can finally return to Cheshire, but alas, he’s here now). The pleasant post-aroma of dinner hovers through the icy air, inhaling it absently as he clasps a cigarette delicately between his fingers. The flickering street lamps are glowing amber around the square, a cluster of saviours amongst the secluded darkness. Black iron fences line the white, pristine houses, large white pillars separating each individual residence. There’s a light drizzle in the air, dampening Harry’s sleek brown waves resting just above his shoulders, curling the ends further and giving the strands a faint frizz. 

Exhaling his last drag with an extra drawn out, miserable laboured intake, he wearily stands, drops the cigarette to the step below him and uses the sole of his shoe to snuff out its diminishing spark. Much like someone else he knows. But alas, he can’t think about that part of his troubled existence right now.

He would much rather think of shinier, brighter, plentiful things.

Harry glances down to check his watch. It’s not long past ten o’clock. His fingers itch with restlessness, his dry mouth parched for a long awaited taste of gin. He carefully, quietly, shuts the front door. He re-adjusts his coat and does up the buttons. Screw waiting to escape until the entire household is asleep.

Harry taps down the steps and ventures into the night, heading for the bright lights of London town, seeking out something to awaken his dulled senses.

**

The doors open with a whoosh. 

Harry is met with the raucous, erratic sounds of piano keys being slammed with joyful eagerness, mixed with the melodic rise and fall of a saxophone playing triumphantly. Harry’s ears begin to ring with the noise and bustle, and the loud buzz of unabashed voices; his eyes sweep across the toothy smiles, the prettied up faces, carrying his troubles far, far away and dissolving beneath the glittering, vivacious bodies.

The warm amber glow of the club’s lamps and flickering candles—which are placed around the room—soothe his senses, quietening his mind despite the noise decibels. Harry glides through the crowd of beads and gems and three piece suits, and squeezes past round, white clothed tables, meshed closely together, cluttered with all kinds of exotic drinks. Harry eyes the olives attached to sticks poking out of cocktails with mild interest as he finds his way toward the bar.

He drums his clammy fingertips atop the smooth, burgundy counter, taking in the band relentlessly playing with gusto against the backdrop of velvety red curtains with content, glassy eyes. He orders a lip-puckering whiskey sour, and is about to knock back a long-awaited swig (he’s been dying for a drink all day), when a firm chest knocks into his shoulder, throwing Harry unceremoniously off balance.

Harry scowls. “Oh, sorry, pal,” he hears a Northern accent shout over the heart-thumping jazz music. Harry whips his head around to investigate the speaker. “I didn’t see you there. M’ quite clumsy,” he hiccups happily. The person whose accent is so close to home belongs to a slightly shorter boy than himself with startling blue eyes that bore into Harry’s, crinkling at the corners, teeth bared in a wide grin. “I can get you another? Can’t waste but even a drop of whiskey, can we?” he grins, voice slurring ever so, clearly a tad (or two) tipsy.

The strong scent of his spicy cologne enraptures him, inhaling this boy’s easy smiles and alluring presence. Harry wills the hammering inside his chest to simmer down to a reasonable pace, but it’s no use. As this is not the first time Harry’s noticed this pair of charismatic blue eyes.

On the first night he discovered this underground speakeasy, Harry was immediately drawn to this very boy’s loud, obnoxious laugh and ended up with his eyes firmly glued to him for most of the night, captivated, and somehow endeared by his exuberance, as he conversed effortlessly with those around him, filled with enthusiasm and wearing a permanent smile. A circle of people, young men and women alike, were completely enthralled with his delicate, flamboyant mannerisms, animated gestures, his grin broad and bright as the sun, albeit a little sinister. Which only made Harry want to know him more, and learn every tiny, useless fact about him until his empty heart was content, filled to the brim with extensive knowledge of this lively blue eyed boy.

Harry stares as the other boy stares right back, an inexplicable warmth radiating from his gaze, awaiting a response from Harry, desire stirring in his gut. The feeling is disconcerting but not unfamiliar. At least not during these past few weeks.

Oh. Right. Words are currently failing to come to him. Bullocks. Say something, Styles.

“Uh–it’s no bother, really,” Harry rushes out, painfully aware his cheeks are burning. “There’s no need.”

The boy’s smile stays loosely put, but his eyes search out Harry’s curiously, tracing the contours and lines of Harry’s features. His eyes flick back up to Harry’s, sweeping across and then somewhat hesitantly leaving the edges of his sharp jawline. “Well, if you’re sure, mate. But perhaps you’ll allow me to buy you another later on?” His stare is unwavering, and Harry’s sure he’s noticed the beetroot blush on both of Harry’s cheeks at the suggestion in his eyes.

Then again, this could be how he behaves with everyone—this charming, magnetic personality that reels just about anyone in with his ocean blue eyes and crinkly smile and animated, contagious laughter.

Or not.

“Perhaps,” Harry replies softly.

Maybe there’s an extra glint in this boy’s eye reserved only for him. 

Such thoughts are no use, but here, Harry finds he doesn't care at all.

The other boy is slightly shorter than Harry. His body is slight, but still effortlessly curvaceous. He's wearing a white shirt that's tightly fitted, a pair of black braces with gold latches thrown over his shoulders and sandy trousers which hug his petite frame in all the right places. His eyes dart and skim over the faint layer of scruff outlining his defined jaw, skin golden in the amber lighting, and his hair just as fair, almost a shade of caramel, smoothed back in a lopsided quiff. Then Harry finds himself lingering his gaze over the dips of his collarbones, the top of his torso exposed, a few buttons undone on his white shirt, which he notices is casually rolled up at the sleeves. 

“I’m counting on it, Curly.”

And with that, he’s handed a gin and tonic as he disappears among the crowd, a displeasing knot tying itself firmly within Harry’s insides as he loses sight of him.

Damn it. 

He spends the rest of the night joking and frolicking with a bunch of faces he's used to seeing already, eyes scanning the sparkling bodies every now and then. It doesn’t take long for Harry to pick him out of the crowds though, and he makes a beeline for him later on in the evening.

Harry catches the hem of the boy's shirt loosely between the pads of his fingers, as the petite boy obliviously passes Harry by, another cocktail in his hand, maneuvering through the huddled group of people drinking and smoking, conversing with a relaxed air of glee in this secret hideout beneath the harsh, unforgiving streets of London and its society’s conservative judgement for all things that happen to include enjoying one’s self. Naturally. 

Because apparently it is hereby illegal to have fun. 

His eyes find Harry’s instantly, stilling as Harry’s large hand practically engulfs the side of his waist, resting on the fasteners of his braces, now hanging from his trousers.

“Oh. Hello, again,” he says, eyes a glint with quiet amusement.

“Hello,” Harry echoes, hand still placed on his waist, feeling his warmth bleed into his own skin, hand frozen in place when he accidentally brushes over a slither of tanned skin, thanks to his loosened shirt's subtle exposure of the side of his upper hip. It's subtle enough that it's for their eyes only.

“How about that drink?” he asks when Harry doesn't say anything else, but it’s more of a statement than a question. Harry doesn’t mind, obviously, but his heartbeat starts to quicken at an alarming rate, gaze following him intently as Blue Eyes gingerly places his hand atop Harry's, much smaller than his, removing it slowly, only for him to instead place his own on the small of Harry's back. They stare at each other for one heated moment, then he leads Harry over to the bar without another word and orders two gin and tonics, turning to Harry briefly for confirmation, to which Harry gives him a quick nod. His stare is otherwise preoccupied with the other boy’s every movement. Every patient press of his thin, pink lips, every delicate swipe over his shiny quiff, zeroing in on one longer strand that has fallen loose from the rest of his perfectly coiffed caramel locks.

His small, delicate hands tap on the bar's surface, and Harry can't help but watch him. The boy's blue eyes constantly check in on Harry every few seconds, (ducking his head down whenever the glances last too long) while they wait for their drinks, surrounded by a loud, lively crowd. Tiny quirks of the boy's lips keep Harry utterly mesmerized. He feels weightless, (perhaps he's drunker than he thought) and overwhelmed.

But he also feels a sort of serene calmness he’s never felt before as he simply watches this beautiful boy standing next to him.

Because he is. He’s beautiful.

Though he knows it’s not what he should be so bold as to speak aloud. 

No matter. He can think it, can't he?. There's no crime in thinking. It’s while he’s lost with the fluttering inside his belly, as the noise around them seems to dissipate, that Harry realises that the boy next to him seems somewhat nervous.

But that can’t be the right assumption at all. If anyone is losing their usual steely stance, it’s Harry.

“You got a name, Green Eyes?” he asks, breaking the silence at last. There’s a mischievous glint in his blue eyes, that confident charisma back with a vengeance, those tiny signs that revealed uncertainty now gone without a trace.

There's an another abrupt flutter in Harry's belly. 

“Harry,” he answers.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harold,” he grins, taking a sip of his gin and sliding the second glass over to Harry.

“Actually, it’s just Harry,” he corrects, but truthfully, he’d foolishly let this boy call him whatever name he wished to and love what he chose.

However, he says nothing in response, only gingerly takes a few more sips, eyes securely fixed upon Harry, a smirk arching his lips. Harry’s eyes wander down to them absently, and he sees the other boy lower his face again, smirking, his teeth biting his bottom lip. With his head bowed like this, he reveals the length and quantity of his gorgeously long eyelashes, casting faint shadows over his high cheekbones in the warm, dim light, sharp and defined and yet the edges of his face are still so soft, so utterly youthful. “Uhm. Are you not going to tell me _your_ name?” Harry asks hesitantly.

“I’m still deciding,” he says after a thoughtful beat. Harry finds himself frowning at that, desperately trying to school the probably grouchy disappointment sweeping over his features. Harry never could train his face to do as his mind told it to. His elevated spectrum of emotions often leaving his facial expressions unguarded and exposed, often to particularly dire and embarrassing consequences.

“I would rather like to call you something at least,” Harry says evenly, willing himself to sound less embarrassingly keen. "If only to put a name to a face. I might see you again, after all. Perhaps we'll become friends?"

The boy smiles like he's got a secret. “Then call me whatever you so desire, young Harold. Any name you deem suitable is fine by me.” He takes a larger swig of his gin, shooting him a brief wink.

Another flutter.

“No—I'd like to know _your_ name. Your _real_ name.” Harry pauses, then rushes out, “I mean, if that's alright?”

“Perhaps if we get to know each other a little better,” he suggests nonchalantly. “Then I might tell you.”

Harry’s brows furrow in surprise. “That’s not fair. I’ve already given you _my_ name,” he protests. But his frown lasts all of a few seconds, as the other boy’s eyes crinkle at Harry’s retort.

And he giggles.

_Giggles._

“Louis,” he says suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Harry blinks.

“My name,” he giggles again. Harry's belly flips for the probably sixteenth time tonight. “It’s Louis.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Louis,” Harry says, beaming.

Louis returns it just as widely. “But," he says, swigging back the last of his gin, "I'm afraid I have to be off now, Harold,” he informs him. "Must dash, you see. Places to go, people to see and all that."

“Oh,” Harry breathes, disappointment surging through his body, still holding a full glass of gin, untouched. "I was rather hoping you'd stay a little longer, so that we could get to know each other better," he says with a grin. "I don't know many people down here, not properly, anyway."

“Well, I’ll be back tomorrow night if you are,” Louis says, a softer expression, more somber replacing the unadulterated grin that was there before.

"I'm here every night," Harry admits.

"I know."

Those two simple words has Harry’s heart thumping so loudly that he can hear it in his ears, louder than any tune the band are playing, suddenly dizzy with the unidentifiable prickles of excitement that are surging through his veins with relentless determination.

"Until next time, Harry," Louis says, disappearing into the crowd.

Harry thinks next time can't come soon enough.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendship starts to blossom.

_Crazy In Love — Emeli Sandé & The Bryan Ferry Orchestra _

* * *

 

It's the following night, and after a bloody unpleasant row with his uncle — which admittedly was extremely surprising to Harry, seeing as he’s barely bothered to string together more than a couple of sentences to his nephew since he arrived in London all those weeks ago — Harry is on the prowl for a distraction, looking to drown himself at the very bottom of a large, disgustingly expensive bottle of red. 

"You ain't coming in 'ere! How many more times do I have to tell you before you bloody listen, boy?" shouts a strong cockney accent, growing increasingly frustrated by Harry's unwavering persistence — or petulance, rather, at being denied this one simple pleasure.

“But you cannot be serious?" Harry barks, incredulous. "I’ve been here inside this very club, _every_ night for _weeks_ ,” Harry protests louder, eyes stormy, glaring at the doorman with his long, protruding nose and dim, unkind eyes. “How can I not be allowed in?” His voice is growing near hysterical, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.

He just wants this one thing. Just wants to down half a dozen whiskey sours throughout the night, is that too much to ask?

Apparently so. Bugger it. Bugger everything.

There is no way he’s going back to the house.

Not a chance.

And it's not like there’s many other places he can actually go anyway.

Well, that's not entirely true. There's plenty a speakeasy or bar located in the heart of London. There just isn't anywhere else he _wants_ to go.

So he’s standing here like a petulant child, refusing to leave at the tucked away entrance of The Candlelight Club, situated on this cramped, dark and grimy side road in Soho, shivering almost violently. His throat is dry and his limbs are weary, the cherry lights flickering dimly above the door, reflecting off of his inky satin suit — which to his horror, is utterly drenched — unruly curls matted together, escaping his high quiff, and the ends sticking to the side of his pale, freezing neck.

“And I _told_ you,” he sneers, “the club is hosting a _member’s only_ event tonight. You’re not on the bloody list, alright, Stans?”

"It's Styles!"

"Still not on the list!" The doorman lifts his hand up, probably not to strike Harry, unless he fancies risking his job, but instead, a small, firm hand suddenly grips the doorman's arm as he yells, “Now clear off you snotty little—”

“I think you’ll find Harry Styles  _is_ on the guest list, thank you very much,” Louis corrects, voice sharp. Harry stares at Louis staring at the man with steely confidence.

But the man isn’t backing down. “For godsake!" He throws up his hands again. "Are you deaf? He's not on the bleeding list!”

“ _Yes_. He _is_ ,” Louis says slowly, no room for argument. “And unless you want me speaking to _Tommy_ about your little habit of sneaking out boxes of brandy from behind the bar—" The man's eyes flicker to Louis, an eyebrow quirked upwards, his mouth in a flat line. "—for you own prohibited personal use and such, you’ll let him in, won't you, _mate_?”

It’s not the most threatening of sentences, but it seems to convince the man that Louis means what he says. Louis looks positively sinister while he grins at the man wide. Like he could have you disappear without a trace with the click of a delicate finger. (At least, Harry hopes not.)

"Fine," the doorman snaps gruffly. 

Louis’ face spreads into a warm smile, eyes fixed on Harry as the doorman sighs in annoyance, and begrudgingly lets Harry through to the familiar hustle and bustle of the speakeasy, the catchy, foot-tapping combination of trumpets, drums and saxophone filling his ears as he crosses the threshold.

“Hello again, Harold,” he greets, beaming up at him, and tentatively reaching out to place a hand loosely around Harry’s wrist. Harry freezes at the unnecessary contact, cautious eyes darting around at the faces in their proximity.

"Er, hello," Harry breathes back dumbly, the heat of Louis' touch is practically burning his skin. Branding it. A pool of disconcerting heat curls around his insides.

“Well, come on then," Louis laughs after a few moments of Harry gaping at him like a fish. "Let’s get some hard, fancy liquor down you, shall we?” he smirks, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Louis drags Harry along into the glitzy, extravagant chaos of over-indulgence, Harry following him blindly, not wanting to lose the searing warmth around his wrist.

**

It's been a hectic evening of half-hearted socializing with the multiple beaming faces all competing for Louis' attention. 

Harry has watched with mild alarm, Louis knocking back drink after drink with incredible speed, sometimes not even his own drink, cheekily swiping glasses out of hands, eyelashes fluttering at them dazedly, who in turn merely throw their glamorous heads back in fits of laughter. 

Obviously Harry doesn't know Louis well yet. Barely even knows him at all. But all this... these showy displays of triumphant hedonism for the apparent enjoyment and entertainment of these faceless bodies crowded around him like wolves, hanging off of his every move, every word... reaching out to touch, to gain a smile aimed at _them_ , it's... Well. It's concerning, to say the least. 

As though there's something else hiding beneath Louis' ever-present, devilish grin, something more melancholy and conflicted behind alluring charisma and wit, and those sharp, cerulean eyes. A flicker of sadness in the way he blinks, the way his mouth twitches uncomfortably, a blank expression immediately smoothing back into a blinding smile.

But then, that could just be Harry's interpretation of Louis' joyous personality on the surface.

He wants to find out more.

**

Harry's quest to find out more about Louis instead ends up as the opposite with, as Louis seems to be asking all the questions, even while stone drunk.

“So, Harold,” Louis slurs, as he takes another swig of his drink. It's approaching one in the morning now, and they're sitting together at a table in the far corner of the club, away from the current commotion over the group of six twinkling flapper girls putting on a hell of a show, all fringes and beads and gold, permanent cheeky smiles etched on their pretty, animated faces. “Where are you from then? You certainly don't sound like you're from around these parts, that’s for sure,” he says, hiccuping the last word, the soft skin of his bare elbow brushing against Harry’s tailored suit jacket.

“Um—Well. I...” he stammers. "I'm, er..."

Louis quirks an eyebrow.

Should he tell him the truth? That he’s only here in London because his thieving father lost their home and countless others’ too? Will he already know the moment Cheshire slips out of his mouth? He doesn’t want to let go of Louis just yet. Not when they’ve barely known each other a day. He wants more time.

“Don’t sweat it, Harold. I’m not here to interrogate you,” Louis chuckles. “Just curious where you’re from, is all. If we’re going to be friends, surely it makes sense that we should at least know a few key details about each other?” he smiles with his eyes — he's decided they’re definitely a cerulean blue — intently locking them with Harry’s. “M’ from Doncaster, myself," he announces proudly, sitting up. "Yorkshire lad, through and through. Originally anyway—” he trails off, but his eyes flit back to Harry, curious, searching.

Harry oddly feels like his skin is alight with the sheer heat of Louis’ gaze. It's unsettling, but not so much that Harry wishes the sensation would stop completely. 

Then he realises how quiet he's suddenly become, Louis staring at him imploringly. 

“It’s really not a trick question, Harry,” Louis drawls slightly but his voice is soft, gentle, like the feeling of lush velvet beneath his fingertips. 

“Oh—no, no!” he blushes. God, he’s making a mess of this. “Of course not. I know— it’s just—”

Even in this intoxicated state, Louis still gives him an odd, questioning look.

“Cheshire. I’m from Cheshire,” he finally answers, resigned, heartbeat speeding up.

There’s a long pause.

Maybe he should have made something up.

Oh, God. 

Well, then.

This is over.

Harry waits with baited breath for Louis to either start yelling and cursing, and have him kicked him out the club as he puts the pieces together (God knows everyone has been gossiping relentlessly about the young son of shamed aristocrat Desmond Styles, responsible for losing dozens of families' money, come to stay in London from Cheshire) or, maybe he won’t have a clue about his background. Maybe he actually hasn't heard of him at all. He hasn't shown any sign of recognizing his name so far.

And if doesn't, everything will be fine. Louis won’t know a thing about Harry's past (or father's past, rather) and perhaps they really can strike up a friendship. He is in dire need of some friends around here if he’s staying in London for the foreseeable future after all.

“Well, isn't that something?" Louis says, face unreadable. 

Harry's body stiffens and his hands tightly grip the other in his lap, bracing himself, his Adam's apple stuck on a continuous bob.

"I used to live in Cheshire. Before we moved down here, of course," Louis says nonchalantly.

Harry’s brows shoot up. “You lived in Cheshire?” he echoes, surprised.

“Indeed, we did,” he confirms on an exhale. “For about... about two years was it? Yes! Two years,” he announces, slamming his glass down animatedly. Then he quietens —staring down at the table for a heavy moment, glassy eyes fixated on the flickering flame of the candle perched in a narrow vase at the center of their table. “Until about six months ago, that is,” he says, voice strange. He takes a large sip out of his almost empty tumbler and sniffs, a finger coming up to scratch at his small nose, eyes still cast downwards.

“May I ask why?” Harry tries gently, curiosity but mostly dread gnawing at his skin. _Please don’t be because of him_ , he thinks. _Please, not you as well._

Louis' eyes flick back up then, startled, as though he’d temporarily forgotten Harry was even sitting there. “It’s—it’s a long story,” he settles on after a few too long, taut moments of silence. Louis taps himself down — for a lighter, he presumes — watching Louis as a shaky hand grips onto the packet of cigarettes on the table.

It's still not an answer and Harry can't rid the horrible feeling that Louis' family were very likely one of the many victims of his father's debauchery. 

He opens his jacket and takes out his own silver lighter, handing it to Louis. “I’m not planning on leaving anytime soon."

Louis stares at the lighter blankly, reflecting the bright gleam of the lit candle on its shiny surface, then meets Harry’s eyes once again, face unreadable, before his ethereal, pixie-like features break into a lovely smile; a breathy laugh escapes his thin, pale pink lips. “Why, thank you, Harold,” he says, quiet and sincere, eyes lidded. 

“You’re welcome,” Harry finds himself whispering with a shrug.

Louis lights his cigarette and offers a drag to Harry, which he accepts, leaning in closer to accommodate the tip of the stick between his lips — and he doesn’t miss Louis’ unwavering stare in his peripherals, watching intently as Harry sucks in a sharp, easy inhale. He lets off and exhales slowly, smoke hazy in their enclosed space. The moment feels heady, air around them thick. Harry doesn't want to question the buzz beneath his skin further.

“So?" he blurts, desperate to brush over the unidentifiable tension in the air between them. "What’s your story, Louis...?” he asks slowly, ending on a question, fishing for his last name.

“Tomlinson,” Louis understands.

They stare at each other. “Louis Tomlinson,” Harry repeats, testing it out, more to himself, a small smile etched upon his closed mouth. "What happened? Why did you move to London?" he presses again. He can't fight the urge not to find out more about him. Harry wants to learn every part of his story by heart, back to back, absorbing every minute detail of every chapter of Louis' life thus far. That's acceptable, right? He's always been curious about people. About Louis, he's even more so. He's fascinating to him.

"If I may be so bold?" he adds as an afterthought.

"I don't understand why you're so interested?" Louis inquires, a touch snippy. "What does it matter why I moved to this blasted city?"

"You don't like it?"

Louis scoffs. Harry's unsure what that means.

"I—I suppose I want to get to know you," Harry tells him honestly, a little taken aback. 

"That all?" he laughs humorlessly, bitterness seeping from his airy breath, mixing with cigarette smoke.

Harry frowns. He isn't certain what Louis is implying, doesn't want to give any one of the possibilities swirling inside his brain a second thought, but he makes his intentions clear. "I want to know you, that's really all there is to it." Louis flits his gaze everywhere but at Harry, lit cigarette he still hasn't touched dangling loosely between delicate fingers, the slight side of his hand resting gingerly upon the pristine white tablecloth.

"I've no hidden agendas towards you, Louis. My intentions are completely innocent, I assure you. I'd just very much like to be your friend," he answers honestly. 

Louis gaze wanders toward the stage, unseeing, where the flapper girls are dancing, gold dresses catching the light. 

"I promise," he says, eyes imploringly seeking out Louis'.

Louis' head swivels back to Harry then, studying his face hard, a concentrated brow inspecting every inch of Harry's face, attentive and watchful, as though he's searching for any hint of a lie. Then he clears his throat briefly before taking a drag himself. “Well, Harry Styles. Perhaps I’ll tell you another time. If you’re lucky,” he adds, slanting his head to the side, smirking, but then it’s gone and his attention is on his disintegrating cigarette, embers flicking off the end, eyes sad, seemingly lost in a room bursting full of people.

Harry knows a thing or two about what that feels like.

So Harry decides then and there. Especially if it means he can find a way to make him look any less sad than he does right now, such a contrast from the lively, carefree host he witnessed every night before they met.

He’s going to make it his mission to become best pals with Louis and learn everything there is to know about Louis Tomlinson.

**

The days and weeks after, flutter and flicker by in a series of upbeat and gleeful flashes before Harry can even catch his breath to blink, eagerly returning to the club night after night, and Louis always finds him.

Harry doesn’t even get the opportunity to seek him out half the time, because Louis, without fail, will find him first.

Sometimes Louis will greet him the moment Harry enters, sometimes dressed in suits that are part-ivory, part-black, often splattered and smudged with raindrops. He'll come clad with the occasional differing bowtie or a contrasting gold necktie fastened to his collar, and Louis will always compliment him on his quirky, ostentatious fashion choices. He'll enter the club smelling distinctly of winter and traces of city damp and mustiness, mixing with the scent of Louis' boyish sweat, tinged with citrus and cigarette smoke.

It clings to the material of their clothes long after they've left the club.

Harry will usually stumble in, hair mussed and in disarray from the wind, his cheeks tinged with crimson from the bitterly cold air. And Louis will instantly embrace Harry with all his might, moulding his smaller, slighter body into Harry’s without any shilly-shallying, or so much as a hint of hesitation, pressing his warm, plush cheek into the crook of Harry’s sweaty, cold neck as he tightly wraps his arms around his tense shoulders.

Other times, he’ll take a little while to find Harry at first, abruptly — but never unexpectedly — turning up halfway drunk somewhere over the duration of the evening with a loud, unabashed greeting.

It's not like Harry doesn't enjoy getting stone drunk either, but whenever he spots Louis already practically sloshed upon his arrival, it stirs something anxious inside his chest.

“Harry!” Louis will yell happily, flashing him the most brilliant smile, eyes crinkling and brazen with fondness just because of Harry’s presence.

“You’re here!” And there he will stand by the packed table, girls and boys in their finest huddled around it, under Louis' spell, sparkling in the dim, reddish and golden glow of the room. They wear identical smiles as they watch Louis, their interest spiking as his eyes lock on Harry, their expressions immediately falling into disappointment that their time with Louis is now over upon Harry's arrival.

“I’m here,” he’ll grin back, his heart racing as it's come to do any time he's in Louis' proximity, tummy fluttering with terrifying, fanciful thoughts that are so unrealistic, he’ll so often have to shove them deep down inside him, and force himself to focus rather on the now, and on the warmth in Louis’ smile.

But it's fine, despite the disconcerting curiosity, the unyielding and impossible imaginings he has about their newly formed bond.

There's still no place he'd rather be. No one else he'd rather be with. 

Harry doesn't want to think about the implications too hard for now, choosing to embrace their budding friendship.

Because that's what it is. A dear, blossoming friendship.

“Finally. There you are,” he says now, relief in his voice as Harry arrives, distractedly smoothing down his entirely ebony suit, adjusting his white bowtie, and prodding his styled quiff before he's pulled down rather robustly by Louis with one arm, the other blindly pushing his glass into someone's unimpressed hand. 

Louis is dressed in his trademark suspenders, black fabric thrown over a crisp, beige dress shirt and black trousers, caramel hair smoothed over to the side. He smells of citrus and smoke of course. But his expression is one more somber than he’s seen it since that second night they met.

Harry furrows his brows, questioning Louis with his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks as Louis still grips his shoulders, instantly aware of the tremor in his voice.

“Nothing," Louis insists, a tad too quickly to be convincing. "I just missed you, is all.”

“You saw me only last night,” Harry says, amused, mouth pressed impossibly close to his ear, stupidly close... feeling Louis shiver slightly from Harry’s hot breath. “Are you sure everything’s alright? You can tell me, you know,” he asks again, concern washing over him, unable to care about anyone else around him. Some are ready and waiting to greet their new friend in Harry. Others are frowning in distaste. Harry can feel their scowls fastened on the back of his head. He doesn't care.

A couple of sweet girls, dressed in sparkling beads of emerald and ivory are patiently looking to Harry for a warm greeting. He shoots them both a friendly smile and they practically beam, giggling into each other.

But all he can focus his attention on, the only person he’s ever aware of completely, is Louis.

Only Louis.

And it's—well—it's starting to become a problem.

He _knows,_ is the thing.

Harry knows what he feels when he sees Louis is not normal, not appropriate, not... allowed. 

Still.

It doesn't go away, this longing. 

But to wish such unattainable, hopeless and impossible things? Is that not Harry's forte these days? It scares Harry. Deeply. And he suddenly feels wretched. Terrible. Afraid to glance even in Louis' direction.

But then Louis will lock his gaze with Harry's glassy jade eyes, and he forgets, forgets that it scares him, completely.

Louis dips back, still clasping the back of his neck with slightly clammy hands, wet from icy glasses; he shakes his head and hugs him more. He's clearly had a lot to drink already. “I’m just really glad you’re here. Can’t I be pleased to see my best mate? Is that such a crime?" he says indignantly. 

A tiny stab of disappointment prickles Harry’s skin. Which. Why, exactly? It’s silliness. Ridiculous. Absurd. Contrary to any sane reason.

Because it's true. They probably are best friends now. They’ve become so close over such a short period of time, as if they've known each other far, far longer than in reality. It simply should not upset Harry to be called his best mate. Even so, he grips Louis tighter, ignoring prying, judgmental eyes glued to their familiar display. Perhaps _too_  familiar, some would say.

“We are, though, aren’t we?” Louis says as he pulls back, eyes resembling something alarmingly close to fear, his voice wavering with worry, brows pinched.

“We’re what?”

“Best mates?” he answers almost coyly, the soft tempo of jazz playing in the background, cheeks flushing. 

A lovely women is singing so wonderfully, a song so intimate despite its growing liveliness. It’s wistful... the atmosphere feels thick... foggy. 

Everything feels that much _more._ As always.

Harry swallows hard, frowning. “Of course we are,” Harry says firmly, as if Louis would think they were anything less. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you these past weeks. You’ve helped me in ways you don’t even know.”

Harry has found he’s able to hear, able to notice less and less of their surroundings, only able to soak up greedily every word, every look, every ounce of attention that Louis seems to want to pay him, and apparently with no misgivings about how close and affectionate they’re being in such plain sight at all.

Maybe he should care.

“Alright,” he says, laughing that hearty laugh he does at every lousy joke Harry musters up, only to hear it, breathy and smooth and contagious, a whiskey clutched in his hand as his face starts to ache from grinning so hard, shaking from happiness. 

It’s in these simple moments, he can forget everything wrong with his life. Forget the pain of having a broken family. Choose to forget every sad, hopeless thought he’s ever had these last dire, dragging months.

His mind full of Louis, who never schools their perhaps slightly overly tactile and physical displays of casual affection — a touch of the waist here, a brush of the hands there, lingering in their embraces just a tad too long than what is deemed appropriate for two young men, what is deemed acceptable, even down here — and the palpable energy that they have has only seemed to grow stronger every night they spend in each other’s most cherished company.

So he truly forgets sometimes, just how little they care for how they act so naturally, instinctively, oblivious to how it looks to outsiders, to people not in their close knit circle.

Because it’s never seemed to matter before.

Speakeasies being a somewhat safe haven for people like them, who enjoy excess and over-indulgence, and who, down here, absolutely relish in the fact they’re allowed to practice an obvious disregard for improper, and at times, shamelessly hedonistic behaviour, consequences be damned.

Only.

It's getting less and less like that.

What is expected of them seems to follow them even here in the confines of illegal alcoholic consumption and riotous music and risque clothing.

"Harry, fella!" Niall, a young Irishman with a penchant for the ladies and a bottomless appetite for beer pipes up suddenly, brown hair slicked back, dressed in a white shirt that's a bit rumpled and shoved up to the elbows, necktie loosely undone. "Meet Mira. She quite fancies you, you know," he winks in a more hushed tone, leaning in.

Harry's gaze darts to the girl beside Niall. Mira stares at Harry with infatuation in her eyes, perhaps even a hint of lust, despite her otherwise seemingly coy and timid temperament. She's pretty, lips crimson and hair falling in chestnut brown waves just above her shoulders, dress a shimmering sapphire. 

"It's a pleasure," Harry replies immediately, reaching for her hand and pecking a chaste kiss to the back of it. He glances up to see Louis appearing even more miserable than he was a moment ago. Harry frowns minutely, quickly schooling his expression back into a friendly smile.

"How do you do," she smiles. 

"How about you give her a dance then?" Niall beams, completely oblivious to the tense looks between Harry and Louis right in front of him. "She's been dying to snap you up for ages, haven't you, darling? Harry, this! Harry, that! That's all I goddamn hear from her late—ow!" Mira glares at Niall, smacking him square in the chest.

"Excuse me," she forces out, stilted, and practically skittles away, another girl following closely behind her, who shoots daggers at Niall as she follows.

"Was it something I said?" He rubs at his chest, confused. Oh, Niall. 

He sighs, knocking back his whiskey. "Women," he says to himself, shaking his head. "I can't do anything right." Harry quirks an eyebrow at the boy's lack of tact. Still, he means well. And he's also been a good friend to Harry so far. He likes him a lot. His ever-present grin is contagious. "Anywho, what about you, Harry? You got a girl yet?" he winks.

The question sends a sharp wave of anxiety and panic through Harry's entire body. "Uhm... no? Not—not at the moment." The truth is he can't remember the last time he was taken with a girl. That should feel disheartening? Only, Harry finds he's not that interested in his lack of romantic liaisons with girls. Anxiety flares back up again.

"Really? You're pulling my leg! Handsome young fella like you!?" he exclaims, laughing and patting a hand round Harry's back. Harry risks a glance at Louis. He's staring at Harry cautiously, face unreadable. It's not pleasant. "I don't believe it!"

"We'll find you a girl, won't we, Lou?" he nudges Louis' hip. "Don't you worry, son," he continues, holding up his glass in promise.

Harry lets out a nervous laugh. "Wonderful."

Louis must sense Harry’s unease at the subject, because then he’s subtly tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s jacket. “Sorry, Niall, me and Harry have somewhere to be. See ya, pal!" he suddenly blurts out, leaving a confused Niall behind, staring after the two of them with a furrowed brow. 

"Bye then!" he calls.

"Come with me,” Louis whispers into his cheek as quick as a whip, practically skipping ahead, dodging sparkling bodies and bumping into firm chests and shoulders, maneuvering around crowded, candlelit tables.

Harry laughs without really knowing why. Louis laughs too, pulling him along more insistently. “Come on,” he says louder, eyes crinkling. "Quick! Chop, chop!"

“Where are we going?” he beams, giggling, knowing full well he doesn’t even care, as long as he’s with Louis, it doesn't matter where they're going.

“We’re going for a drive,” he announces, clapping his hands together when they exit through the back entrance.

Oh. Harry frowns. “We’re leaving already?” he protests. 

“Well, if you don’t want to come with me—”

“No, I want to come,” Harry replies embarrassingly quickly. 

Louis eyes him with a crooked, knowing smile, turning to walk down the pavement. Harry, of course, follows without question.

“Get in then,” he gestures. The car is a Ford model, painted a shiny shade of scarlet, roof down and gleaming in the streetlamp’s amber light, parked a little way down the road in front of the endless choices of small restaurants and bars and clubs, some seedy, some more appropriate for the more conservative folk, depending on which end you happened to be on.

This isn't the conservative end.

Harry climbs into the passenger seat, excitement pulsing in his veins. "This is your car?" he asks, incredulous. 

"You think I can't afford to own a car like this, Styles?" he frowns.

"No! I mean, yes! I mean, that wasn't—"

"Calm down, mate," he laughs. "You'll give yourself a heart attack. I'm only playing," he grins, hand atop Harry's mid-air. Harry zeroes in on the contact. "But, no. It's not," he smirks.

Harry's eyes widen. "It's _not_ your car?"

"No, it is not my car, Harold," he says, hands smoothing over the steering wheel, nonchalant and pleased. Then he bursts into hysterics. 

"Louis!"

"What? Settle down. It's fine."

"How is it fine? This is stealing!" 

"It's a friend of mine's. Don't worry your lovely, pretty self."

Harry feels his cheeks glow positively crimson. Thank God it's dark.

He starts the car, pulling out of the parking spot and starts to drive off down the road. Harry stares at him in disbelief. 

"It's Niall's, alright?" he blurts, taking a side glance at Harry's glare. "I've done it before, he won't mind," he shrugs, face half shadowed in moonlight. "We'll bring it back before he even notices."

Harry can't help but guffaw, the roar of it causing Louis' face to spread into a beaming grin, positively delighted. "Now let's go and have some real fun!" he bellows.

Their laughter and hot breath mingle together in the chilly front seats. Harry lets himself relax and sinks into the leather seat, feeling content and free and like he's walking on air with Louis smiling wide beside him, pushing his foot down harder on the accelerator as they drive off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts or feedback you have would be wonderful. I'd love to hear from you! xx


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis might know.

It was the morning after his ludicrous night drive around the city with Louis in Niall's car. Louis had screamed out of the windows and cackled into the chilly evening air, as Harry struggled to catch his breath from laughing so much, and so heartily, catching glimpses of shocked, offended faces as Louis upheld general chaos and disruption, narrowly avoiding a police car's attention. His shameless shenanigans ensured Harry woke up with a content smile on his face, feeling better than he had felt in ages, happier than he'd felt months ago after leaving his beloved home.

Harry lay there in bed a few moments longer, chocolate curls ruffled and mussed, Louis occupying Harry’s mind immediately to an almost, what should have been, an uncomfortable degree. Rather, it instead gave Harry a much needed push to put one foot in front of the other without the feeling of overwhelming, disenchanted despair that he'd felt every miserable morning since he'd arrived here. But he hadn't felt like that for a while now. Not since before he and Louis had struck up their close friendship. Which he honestly couldn't imagine being without.

He felt good, his mind calmer, his steps lighter.

Just thinking about seeing Louis again tonight gave him the drive and motivation to survive the day ahead.

And so his morning had started off as one filled with promise and dare he think it — hopefulness. A quietly optimistic thought buried itself in Harry’s flesh, beneath his pores, that perhaps, in its own roundabout way, living here in London was finally beginning to offer _more_ to him.

Beginning to offer something kinder, something better, something just _more_.

But of course, it was short-lived.

 _Of course_.

Because the moment he arrived downstairs, taking his place at the opposite end of the unreasonably extended and isolating breakfast table, proceeding to absently pick indifferently at his Eggs Benedict — consequently earning a familiar scowl from his uncle — his mood was effectively ruined by the chosen subject of conversation.

And thus the day ahead would fall apart considering what happened later on.

There was hardly any conversational chatter at all on an average day between Harry and his uncle, but when he did decide to speak, it was of course to deflate his rare good mood, pressing on the hollows of his fatigued temples and weary limbs, awful reminders of his situation flooding back to him after a fluke of short premature bliss.

“Your father telephoned this morning,” his uncle began in his gruff voice, stuffing his face with his own eggs, and rather messily at that, the speckles of grey in his hair catching the rarity of the sunlight beaming through the open windows of the dining room. Harry glared at the man, who did not even possess the decency to bother with making the slightest bit of eye contact with his nephew as he spoke. “I must say I was surprised, but there are things to be done with your visit here. Things you must get on with. You're not a boy anymore. You are of age. You have responsibilities to uphold your family name." Harry snorted. His uncle ignored him. "He wishes to speak with you this evening. You are to be by the telephone at six o’clock sharp.” His voice was emotionless. It made Harry glare harder, imagining daggers being thrown above his stupid bloody head.

Harry scoffed, humourlessly. "I will not," Harry informed him, voice cold.

His uncle’s eyes at last snapped up to look at Harry, matching his scowl with equal disdain. “I beg your pardon?”

“I will not speak to him tonight, or any night for that matter. You can tell him yourself. He’s _your_ brother.”

"Now see here, young man. While you're living under my roof, that I so kindly offered—"

" _Offered_?" Harry laughed bitterly. "Forced into, more like. You act like I'm not even here half the time. I may as well not even exist. S'not like you can hold a conversation anyway, seeing as you're permanently drunk off your face."

"Harry Edward Styles. Hold your tongue and show me some respect." His uncle's eyes were hard, a determined set to his sharp jaw.

Harry abruptly pushed his chair back, a loud screech against the chestnut flooring filling the heavy silence, and without another word from either of them, Harry stormed out. He flung on his coat and slammed the door shut behind him, the silver plated clock on the opposite wall shaking with the force, startling the poor maids — which Harry did feel guilty about. They were quite curt towards him most of the time, but they they were under obligation to keep to themselves, and yet they were always perfectly discreet about Harry's secret late night shenanigans which Harry was extremely grateful for, so he made a mental note to apologize later when he returned. Not that he wanted to.

But nevertheless, he stalked away and headed for Kensington Gardens, his scowl deepening as he thrust his hands into the deep pockets of his long black overcoat, his hair swirling with the blustery gusts of wind that had greeted him the moment he left the doorstep, a cluster of crisp brown, yellow and auburn leaves trailing after him in his wake.

**

Harry wearily reaches the gates of Kensington Gardens, veins boiling with irritation. He’s got his head down, lips pursed firmly together in a straight line as he treads along the pathway with long, swift strides.

He plonks himself down on the nearest bench he approaches and crosses his legs, hands still buried inside his pockets, sitting sullenly with a permanent scowl etched to his pale features.

He sits there feeling sorry for himself for the better part of almost an hour. It’s only when he’s about get up to leave that he spots _him_.

Louis.

Immediately his chest, brittle from the cold air, soothes. 

Louis, in all his suspender clad, slick, caramel coiffed glory, a dark coat over the top of his white shirt. He’s happily holding onto the hands of two smiling little blonde girls, their hair in braids and tied at the ends with flimsy red ribbons, wearing matching scarlet dresses and white knee socks. They skip along as Louis swings them back and forth, lifting them into the air occasionally as they patter along the curving pathway along the lake — heading straight towards where Harry sits.

He feels anxiety creeping up his spine for some absurd reason, shifting his body awkwardly, swapping his crossed legs over the other erratically. He must look mad. It's only Louis. This is the first time he's seen him during the day though. The thought makes him nervous.

He hears the girls’ giggles as one runs ahead — and falls head first right in front of Harry’s ebony booted feet. She bursts into tears immediately upon impact with the rough, gravelly surface of the pathway. Harry launches into a crouching position, placing a hand over the girl’s back, running soothing circles into her coat with his thumb.

“There, there, sweetheart. You’re alright, aren't you?” he smiles comfortingly. The little girls’ sobs become louder. 

Louis is rushing over now, the second girl reaching the pair first, and mirrors Harry, crouching down next to whom Harry assumes is her twin sister judging by their uncanny resemblance. “Daisy,” she coos. “Are you okay?”

“Dais?” Louis calls, panic etched over his soft but rugged features. “Where are you hurt, love? Come on, let your big brother have a look.” His familiar cerulean eyes dart up and find Harry’s. “Oh,” he says, stopping at once. “Hello, you," he breathes.

“Hello,” Harry repeats, unable to break his gaze, catching the quirk in the corner of Louis' lips as a knowing smile spreads across his face.

“Alright?” he asks quietly, suppressing a fond smile. Harry feels frozen to his spot as he watches Louis take in the sight of Harry comforting his, apparently, younger sister. Then he seems to shake out of whatever train of thought he was following. “She’s as clumsy as I am, this one,” he says, and Harry can't help but smirk at the comical way he's beaming at Harry as he pats thecrying girl, Daisy’s, evidently distraught head. “Aren’t you?” He inspects her short legs for any cuts or grazes. Then gently turns over her gravel marked hands, brow furrowing slightly as he takes in the dirty, but mostly uninjured state of them.

He whips his gaze back to Harry when he says, “Hey, now,” Harry tells her softly, wiping her wet cheeks with a white cotton handkerchief he pulls out from his pocket, catching the crinkled smile from Louis’ blushing face out of his peripherals, and replacing it with one of surprise. “You should be thanking your socks for protecting your knees, quite frankly.”

That earns a tiny quiet laugh out of Daisy. Louis’ eyes flick from his sister to Harry and back again.

“If I were you," Harry says lowly, almost whispering, "I should name each sock out of utmost respect and as their reward for such a fine rescue of your poor knees,” he says with a silly tone, grinning. He looks up to find Louis’ eyes boring into him, observing Harry closely, unblinking.

For one bleak moment, he thinks Louis really does consider Harry mad, but his chest bursts with relief when Louis’ face splits into a brilliantly bright smile, and he _laughs_. Heartily. Familiarity and affection pouring from Louis' eyes and mouth. Harry’s chest wants to explode with not just relief but. Also, perhaps... Joy? Delight? Utter glee?

All of the above.

Harry and Louis sit there a moment, exchanging ever widening smiles and low chuckles, when they’re broken out of their wonderfully intimate reverie by a woman’s voice, calling Louis' name in the distance.

He watches Louis’ smile fall, an uncomfortable, almost apprehensive expression taking its place.

“ _Louis_?” she calls louder, nearing the four of them as they stay kneeling on the ground with the girls, her voice frustrated, annoyed. The woman who approaches wears a black fur coat, hair falling in a short bob, almost the exact same shade of Louis’. She walks towards them with intimidating purpose, face hard, brows pinched together as she pushes along a large cream coloured pram, the hood drawn back. “I told you to watch the girls,” she snaps. “Now look what’s happened.” Seeing her mother treat the fall as something serious causes Daisy to burst into another wave of tears, instantly running into her mother’s arms. The woman glares first in the direction of Louis and then her stern gaze falls uponHarry.

Alright, then.

It’s not like he tripped the girl up on purpose. He feels his own brows pinch together slightly because she's staring at him like he's personally responsible, as if it's his fault that every bad thing that might have happened to her so far today is his entirely.

He swallows down a burst of anxiety. Pushing firmly away the very probable possibility that she knows Harry's name and what that name has done to many a respectable, middle class family as he presumes hers to be.

“And who might you be?” she asks carefully, eyes narrowing at Harry. Though something in her stance as she picks the girl up, holding her close to her side tells him she most definitely already knows the answer.

Marvelous.

Is there no one in this godforsaken city who _doesn’t_ know who Harry is? He's fairly sure half of the attendees of The Candlelight Club have been hearing whispers of his parentage as of late. He only hopes Louis doesn't know yet, not before he gets a chance to explain. The idea that Louis might find out now fills him with dread.

“Mother," Louis starts abruptly, trying his best to sound more casual than Harry knows he is. "This is Harry. He was kind enough to tend to Daisy, you see,” he says hesitantly, eyeing Harry with an odd look in his eyes now, darting them back towards his mother uneasily.

Strange.

Does Louis know about his father’s scandal too? A further bout of dread builds up in his insides, making him feel awfully sick. If he knows, what does he think about Harry? He hasn't acted any different than usual during their nights at the club, in fact, they're closer than ever, aren't they? 

“Harry?” she repeats. Louis nods. There’s an excruciating pause. “Styles, I presume? Desmond Styles' son?" she almost spits the name out. 

His stomach drops. “Um—Yes, madam. Styles. That's right."

“Mmhmm,” is all she says, glaring at him with something very like disgust, as if he were something muddy and dirty stuck to her polished new shoe. "Well, we must be on our way. You understand," she says, not even looking at him now. 

"Oh, of course. Goodbye, Mrs Tomlinson," he manages to say, feeling incredibly small under the weight of her scrutinizing gaze.

“Louis,” she says curtly. And it’s not a request. Louis instantly stands and follows her, only shooting one brief, perhaps apologetic glance back at Harry as they make to leave the park. “Come along girls. Don't dawdle." 

But then Daisy stops suddenly, and pads up to Harry, presenting him with his scrunched up, albeit much damper handkerchief. 

“Oh, no. You keep it,” he says, a half-smile all he can manage.

“Thank you,” she replies and skips back over to her mother and siblings.

Louis' eyes meet Harry’s. He gives him a small smile, but it fades almost instantly, his face now solemn and uncertain.

He doesn’t look back again.

And well.

Harry’s only source of light in this dark city may have, or about to be snuffed out completely. Harry stares after them, only just realizing he’s still crouched down on the pathway when a patter of rain starts to fall, splashing his boot, suddenly feeling extremely wretched, extremely hopeless, and extremely aware of the bitter cold.

** 

That night, the speakeasy's familiar and joyous riot of swinging jazz, roaring laughter and hustle and bustle sweeps over the contours of Harry’s pallid skin — except for the rosy blush that’s surfaced high on both of his cheekbones — seeps into his pores and enraptures Harry’s senses, pulling him head first into a hazy hurricane of all things sweet and sour. The combination of musty cigarette smoke and spicy colognes fills his nostrils, becoming lost amongst a sea of ivory and golds, reds and greens, plush velvet and sparkling drinks.

He consumes every drink thrust upon him by wide grinning mouths, clumsily shoving glass after glass into his clammy hands.

Waiting.

Waiting. 

Waiting for a pair of blue, intoxicating eyes that seem to stir and awaken something inside of Harry that he was always too scared to touch, too scared to think about, to dream about even for fear someone would know when they looked him the eye. 

He's achingly aware that Louis seems so familiar to him already, so knowable, so recognizable, in a matter of weeks. He's not known Louis a whole month yet and he already feels this way.

And that's not quite normal, is it?

The way he seems to enrapture him, curving around Harry's bruised edges, so soon burying himself within the dark corners of Harry's clouded mind.

Maybe it’s just him. Louis Tomlinson. The way he simply he is. The way he seems to have a magnetic pull that lures Harry to him so easily, so willingly. As he does so many others...

But.

All he can think about is the _need_. The absolute need to see him again. He's almost desperate. Wanting to know for sure what his mother knows about his family's background, the humiliating, shameful reason why he's even here in London. _Wants_ , no _needs_ , to know how Louis feels about all of it. Does he think less of him? Does he want nothing more to do with him now that he's learned his father's a disgrace? A thief? A liar? Does he think that of Harry too? Is their new-found, wonderful friendship effectively over?

He needs to _know_. Can't bear another moment not knowing what Louis thinks. 

So all night he waits, but still Louis doesn’t come.

For the first time in weeks, Louis isn’t here tonight.

A swoop of something unpleasant buries itself in Harry’s gut.

“Has anyone heard from Louis? Has anyone seen him at all?” Harry asks several times during the night to people he’s come to know well, to folk he knew held Louis in high regard and relished his company every night he’s been at the club.

But all he's got so far in answer are variations of the same unhelpful replies.

“Sorry, pal. Not seen him.”

“Don’t worry, chum. I’m sure he’ll turn up,” owners of comforting hands assure him, placing them heavily on his shoulders when they catch Harry’s young features crumpling into disappointment, worry.

“That lad can’t resist showing his handsome face around these parts, can he? That good ‘ol  Tomlinson?” And then a departing wink, or the smack of a scarlet drenched kiss to his flushed cheek follows.

Then he sees Niall, and rushes over to him with hopeful eyes. "Niall, have you seen him?" he asks imploringly.

"No, mate. Not seen a peep of Lou yet," he tells him, turning to face him with clear blue, friendly eyes, resting his free hand on one of Harry's shoulders. "M'sure he'll turn up, Harry. He always does," he grins.

"Yeah, no, you're right." Harry deflates instantly. It's late. Really late. Almost two in the morning now. He's not coming. Niall notices Harry's face falling, falling, so he gives him a comforting, if a little heavy-handed pat, and pulls him into a quick hug.

"Eh, he'll probably be back tomorrow. Maybe he was busy? Not feeling well enough?" Niall offers. 

"No, I know. Thanks Niall," he smiles, trying his best to school his face into one that doesn't scream  _I want to sit on London Bridge because Louis is probably never going to speak to me again_ and says his goodbyes. 

Tomorrow night. Perhaps he just had important things to attend to, got held up somewhere...

Everything's fine. It's got nothing to do with today. Nothing to do with what his mother might have told him.

It’s then that Harry realizes he doesn’t actually know a thing about Louis’ life. Other than he's originally from Doncaster and lived in Cheshire up until six months ago or his favourite type of rum, Harry doesn’t know Louis Tomlinson at all.

But he doesn’t turn up the next day.

Or the next.

Not even the day after that.

And now it’s been nearly a week since Harry has last seen Louis, his hands, his limbs and mind itching with the need to be close to him, to be near, to touch.

He misses him terribly.

He hopes tomorrow will be kinder.

**

“Can I get another G and T, please?” Harry gives his drink order at the bar, expression glum, his limbs achingly restless, shouting to be heard over the frantic jazz tunes that tonight, he just can’t seem to stand.

It's all just noise.

All his mind seems to want to focus on is his father’s appalling behaviour, and the fact that his reputation has now managed to bleed into Harry’s life too. It won't be long until people think him to be some kind of sneaky accessory in his father’s stealing. He's sure Louis' mother must have spoken up by now. He's sure Louis knows about his father, and that he's the reason they must have lost their own home and had to move down to London, their lives turned upside down. Perhaps that's why Louis drinks so much, is here so often.

He leans his arms against the bar’s top, swirling the clear liquid in his glass around in one hand, the other flat on the bar’s surface, shiny but sticky. He knocks it back in a few moments, shuddering a shaky breath as his mind races back to its usual subject these days, unable to help his eyes wander around the crowds sat together in booths, deep in conversation, lazily slung in chairs.

Will Louis be here tonight?

Will he even still be talking to Harry? Will he want to? Or will he ignore him due to his mother’s presumptuous, judgmental request?

It’s not that he blames Louis’ mother for seeing Harry as a threat, someone not to be trusted. Not after witnessing what his father is capable of. Not after everything he’s done. That he’s done to so many people (even if most of them are rude and snooty and probably deserve taking down a peg or two). But it’s still wrong. Terrible, what he’s done. And worse still, his good-for-nothing father has shown no remorse for any of it. Not the gambling. The debts. The stealing. The affairs. None of it.

And now Louis might not even approach Harry ever again. Because he likely knows Harry's own father is the reason for a large portion of their money, their home being gone, and they're likely never to get back their money back. Money they worked for. Gone. Just like that.

And Harry’s namesake is to blame for it.

But surely Louis wouldn’t hold Harry responsible though would he? Louis has every right to be angry, furious, and he won't blame him at all if he wishes to take it out on Harry.

Maybe there's still a chance it will be okay.

He turns his body to face the crowd. And then he sees him.

Louis stops as his gaze meets Harry’s. Blue eyes staring back at him with a hint of hesitance. Harry’s heart thumps at the alarming rate that seems to be his customary reaction to Louis.

He walks toward him, barely leaving a gap between them, (thank God) staring up at Harry with furrowed brows.

Oh no. This is it. He’s going to tell Harry he can’t speak to him anymore. 

“She told me to stay away from you,” he says, tries to make his voice heard over the music. He looks so _sad_. It’s threatening to tear Harry in two, tears threatening to spill from Harry's eyes.

“And are you?” Harry says shakily.

There’s a pause. And then, “What would you do?" Louis asks, face stricken.

“I’d do what felt right," Harry answers, heart lodged in his throat with the overwhelming need to do something he really, really shouldn't. Something he can't. But before he can say anything else, he feels the warmth of Louis hand encircle his wrist. That comforting, familiar touch that he's become so accustomed to, something he's started to crave since the first time.

"Come and sit with me," he says, pointing to a vacant table, much further away from the band, which is starting to change to a calmer tempo. "We need to talk."

Harry nods, and as usual, follows Louis without hesitating. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. Hopefully I can post more regularly now. Let me know what you're thinking, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	4. Chapter Four

_Your Soul - Rhodes_

* * *

 

Harry watches Louis strum his blunt, dainty fingernails erratically against the table, drinking in Louis’ immaculate appearance. He’s never seen Louis walk in quite so sober before, or so well put together, or so... serious. He’s always already taken off his jacket, effortlessly working the room, wandering around table after table, giggling and flaunting his suspenders, swung over his shirt as he delicately sips on a tumbler of whiskey.

Now, as Harry stares at Louis with a miserable longing in his belly, pulse as erratic as Louis’ unconscious movements, Louis sits across from him with a blank expression on his face, a blazer jacket over his crisp blue shirt. The top button is unusually done up, a grey bowtie at the center, caramel hair artfully coiffed.

His heart is hammering behind his ribcage, scenarios swirling around his wretched brain. The worst case scenario: Louis’ about to let him down gently and bid him farewell, and one of them will have to stop attending the club and go elsewhere, and of course it’s going to have to be Harry.

Louis got here first, after all.

Harry swallows down his panic at the idea of never getting to speak to Louis again, just as Louis finally locks his gaze with Harry’s properly for the first time in a week.

It’s been torture, is what it’s been. Louis’ managed to bury his molecules and scent and being underneath Harry’s skin, work his way behind his eyelids, seep into his bloodstream. It’s tragic, and pathetic, and  _fruitless_.

Because whatever he feels for Louis will be wasted, is already wasted, because it can’t ever be. It’s not on the cards. It’s not...  _acceptable_.

“How are you?” Harry offers nervously. The tension is odd, the air stale. Like two strangers are conversing in a forced conversation.

Perhaps they are.

“I’m fine, you?” Louis replies nonchalantly, though by his taut stance, even while sitting, his back straight and face angled away from him, he’s anything but. Louis fidgets, nimble fingers distractedly tapping the material of the tablecloth, avoiding Harry’s worried gaze.

“I haven’t been all that well,” Harry answers honestly, a hoarseness to his voice. “In fact I’ve felt rather mad this past week," he pauses, waits for a response. He doesn't get one. "I’ve missed you," Harry dares to add in small voice.

Louis’ face slowly twitches. There’s something there, a hint of distress, but blank, cerulean eyes are still seeking anything that isn’t Harry. He nods, a barely there acknowledgement of what Harry has said.

“Didn’t you bring me here to talk?” he asks suddenly because Louis is acting so strangely and he can’t bear the not knowing a moment longer.

Louis stares at Harry for one agonizing moment, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat. “She doesn’t want me to see you anymore. She doesn’t want me to speak to you, to ever talk about you or your family.”

Harry guessed as much, but before he can reply, Louis hurdles on. “She’s hurt, Harry. She’s so hurt.” He looks up at him with wounded eyes, searching Harry’s face so desperately as if it holds the answers to the universe’s secrets. “Did you know? About what your father was doing? Did you—” he cuts off, blinking furiously at the table.

“Did I help him, you mean?”

Louis nods cautiously.

“No, Louis, no," he insists, wants him so badly to understand, to believe him. "I was as shocked and angry as everyone else when his antics came to light. I was just in the middle of it all. But since I’m his beloved son,” Harry says in a mocking voice, “everyone assumed I had something to do with it, of course, that I must have known what he was doing, that he was training me to be like him or some nonsense. The only things I knew for sure were the amount of bottles of whiskey he got through and the countless affairs he was having," he says wearily. "Even walked in on him with women who weren't my mother a few times,” Harry mumbles quietly, frowning hard down at his hand as he traces the ice residue on the rim of his glass. “What exactly have you heard about me?” Harry asks, restless at Louis’ silence.

The damning stories and rumours and false facts making their rounds amongst London’s society gnaws at his delicate nerves. He wants so badly not to care what people say, what they think of him. But he can’t help but slip back into the fidgety, vulnerable boy that had not yet stepped foot out of Cheshire, who was always a tad shy and insecure, that small boy with too large features for his young face, the boy who always worried about what others thought of him. That boy creeps back into Harry’s cells and quivers when he adds, “Well, about my father, I mean,” Harry pauses, notes the way Louis’ brows pull together, a crease forming between them, a hint of anger? “Was it your mother who told you?” Harry wonders aloud. “After all, as much as we’ve enjoyed each other’s company these past weeks, we know very little of each other outside this club,” Harry chuckles softly.

Louis cautiously lifts up his delicate hand, slides it closer to Harry’s own, and rests it upon the table. Louis lets his smaller hand lay just shy of touching Harry’s clenched fist, tense and knuckles white.

Harry exhales a breath, parting his lips as he watches their candle’s flickering light cast shadows over Louis’ ethereal face, highlighting the almost glossy shimmer of his eyelids in the warm, golden hue of the room as he casts them downwards.

He’s so wonderful, so ethereal, and so, so sad.

Harry snaps.

“Louis, I am so, so sorry if you’ve been affected in any way by  _him_. Have you... have you decided to follow your mother’s wishes? If she prefers you keep your distance from me... That is, if you are going to, I want you to,” he sighs, frustrated, “I want you to know that I understand—”

“Harry,” Louis stops him, eyes tentatively searching Harry’s likely intense, visibly desperate gaze. He exhales a shaky breath, lights a cigarette and takes a long inhale.

On his exhale, his flicks his gaze back to Harry. “She said I can’t trust you. That you’re one of them. A Styles.”

“Louis,” Harry pleads. “I know what your mother thinks of me, and I don't blame her. But what do _you_ think of me?”

“I think I can trust you," Louis says slowly. 

And that right there is all Harry needs to hope.

“We’ve been through a shitty time of it lately," Louis sighs. "These past six months, God, even before that. They’ve been hell, Harry. My parents fight all the time. In fact, there’s hardly a moment’s peace when they’re not at each other’s throats. My mother... she just can’t believe my father could have trusted him with everything we own.”

Harry moves his hand an inch closer to Louis’, limp and golden against the pristine cream of the tablecloth.

“Mr Styles, your father,” he starts, exhaling a smoke shakily. “He promised my father a great deal of money in a business arrangement of some kind, I don't know the details. Only that your father claimed he was selling new properties in Cheshire that were apparently being built soon. We were meant to move into a property your father arranged for us, and so we sold our house to him. Only he never paid up. My father kept asking, kept trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the weeks were turning into months. Worse, there never even was another house to move into. Your father lied. Presumably so he could clear some of his gambling debts, and then sold our house to another family while we were away visiting our own. When we got back, everything was gone. All of our things. Sold on, pawned. We had no idea. We couldn’t understand how it could have happened.” Harry flinches, disgusted with his father’s behaviour, his heart clenching for Louis and his family, of his little sisters. “And he did the same to so many others, borrowing money, promising money, stealing money. Again and again, so I’ve heard. My father lost almost his entire fortune. Which was fairly modest to begin with,” he chuckles humourlessly. “We were always comfortable, but we were never made of money. Luckily, my father had some savings, enough to buy a small house in London from a man he knew when he was young. But we had to uproot our entire lives. Leave behind all that we knew, all of our friends, our family members. We never would have left willingly. I never planned to. But we had no choice. We'd lost everything.”

“Louis,” he chokes out. “I’m so—I’m so sorry—” 

“Harry,” he cuts in, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over his petal pink lips. "Please, stop apologising. It's not your fault. I don't blame you." 

"You... You don't?" Harry's own lips quiver beyond his control and part on a startled breath as he's met with the warm, careful touch of Louis' hand, deliberate as it caresses the hand in Harry's lap underneath the table, away from the oblivious, intoxicated faces roaming the dimly lit, now rosy hue of the room. Harry looks up to meet Louis' imploring gaze, his breath stuttering as he allows Louis' thumb to softly, slowly stroke the back of his hand, feather light and reassuring, sending shards of comforting warmth through Harry's veins, ridding him of all his rationality as Harry's grabs for Louis, he grabs his hand and holds it in his own, safe and steady. He isn't planning on letting it go anytime soon.

Louis looks down at his lap, closes his eyes momentarily and opens them with a wild look. “Come with me?” he asks suddenly, pained and uncertain, holding his stare with glazed eyes, full of frantic intent and a recklessness that Harry knows all too well by now. Louis squeezes Harry’s hand.  

“Where?”

“Trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Good, because I trust you too," he says, moving his fingers to clasp his spot, Harry's wrist. Harry wonders whether Louis can feel his pulse so obviously speed up at his touch. "It may be incredibly stupid, foolish of me to even think that—“ he trails off. He takes a breath. “But I don’t care. I only know I how much I enjoy spending time with you, Harry. It’s not even just that I en— It’s just... I _need_ to, almost? I just miss you. I miss you when I'm not with you,” Louis continues, almost crazed, the words tumbling out, manic and impassioned and clear. “I go mad with wanting it. I go mad from missing you, not being with you...” he says, hushed, slow and insistent. "I want...," the words die on his tongue, but his eyes hold Harry with a steady, firm grasp. Anchoring him as though Harry is a ship that's swaying on the water's surface, unbalanced. Louis keeps him in place. Grounded.

Yet Harry can’t breathe. His hand is shaking in Louis’ under the table, his mouth dry and suddenly the room is spinning. All he can focus on is in front of him. On Louis. Only Louis.

"Louis, I-" he whispers, equal parts hopeless and hopeful.

"Please," Louis begs. 

What he's begging for exactly, Harry isn't sure, but he knows he wants to be wherever Louis is. He always does. 

Louis lets go, and Harry's hand instantly misses him, conscious of the breath of cool air that leaves its mark on his skin as Louis takes away his addicting warmth. He stands up, stifling his cigarette butt in the ashtray, waiting for Harry to follow him. Harry does. He follows Louis through the thrum of bodies, fingertips discreetly ghosting over Louis' jacket sleeve, Louis' own fingers ever so slightly brushing Harry's as he leads him outside and onto the damp pavement, the crimson lights flickering in their wake as they walk to a small, black car parked a little down the road.

Neither of them speak. Harry blindly follows Louis inside it, his heart dangerously close to bursting open through his dress shirt as the doors slam shut and they're alone.

Harry's chest heaves with anxiety, with anticipation, with being so close to Louis. And  _want._ He feels an overwhelming sense of _want_  , that's exactly what it is, and he's dizzy with it. His jaw is trembling, his whole body is. He can't stop. He can't stop it. He wants Louis.

Louis' silently staring straight ahead, then he glances in the rear view mirror for what seems like a bloody eternity, checks his side out of the window and then leans over to Harry's side, his face so close, so impossibly close he can hear the sound of Louis' erratic, heavy breathing. Harry shuts his eyes tight, desperately trying to regulate his own. When he opens them though, it's to Louis leaning in carefully, almost falling into his lap. Their knees bump and Louis moves closer still, pressing their thighs together. Harry's angling his body to mirror Louis'. Louis holds his gaze as he tentatively reaches for Harry's shaking hand, lying limp on his right knee. He interlocks their fingers, studying Harry's face with a serious, almost terrified expression on his face, illuminated by the amber street lamps. Louis opens his mouth to speak but all that escapes is a sharp, jittery gasp.

It's so loud in the quiet of the car.

They stare at each other, eyes hooded and glassy, their breaths puffing out on a loop. Both of them swallow continuously as they try to slow their breathing, faces inching nearer, daring to close what little gap, what little boundaries are left between them.

And then it happens. What Harry realises he's been dreaming about since the moment he saw him, grinning wide and unabashed, and with the entire world at his feet, cerulean eyes meeting his across the bar as Harry downed glass after glass of red wine, dazed and lonely and despondent. 

It's just the briefest touch of lips. Warm breath caressing Harry's chin. Then the pressure becomes less hesitant, becomes firmer and quickly turns into something more demanding as Louis' plush, gorgeously soft lips press a long, lingering kiss on Harry's pliant mouth, as Louis steals the breath out of his lungs, kissing him like he's something Louis needs more than anything, more than the very air they breathe.

Harry parts his mouth and kisses Louis back thoroughly, breathing Louis in, frenzied with the terrifying feelings he stirs within him, but it never feels wrong. Not once. They cling to each other until they're gasping for air, only breaking apart for a few moments, immediately dipping back in again.

Their hands find the lapels of his each other's jackets. They grip at them, pulling and holding on. They kiss desperately, freely, moving to jaws, to chins, to necks, to any part of each other they can reach. Harry, feeling braver than ever, drags and rubs his lips reverently along Louis' cheekbones, drowning in the unfamiliar sensation of Louis' stubble against his own smooth skin, pleased when he coxes out soft, little whimpers from Louis' panting, shiny mouth.

It's as though every second they've spent together and apart has led to this.

Harry can't get enough of Louis. Hands roam everywhere, anywhere they dare to go. He's taking more and more, and yet it still doesn't feel like enough. Louis feverishly mouths at Harry's neck, more reckless and rash than he's ever seen him, vigorously pressing hot, damp kisses to Harry's scorching skin between soft pants. He feels delirious with it.

"Louis," Harry says, his name deafening in the quiet of the car, except for their heavy breathing as he pulls back, staring at Louis with a resolute look in his glazed eyes. They feel wet, moisture quickly gathering in them, while Louis looks completely sloshed, hair and clothes bedraggled and lips smudged. He's a mess. A beautiful, exquisite mess that Harry should like to compose music for, write a dozen or more sonnets about in one night and dedicate all of them to him. The boy who's such a burst of colour and light in Harry's grey and vapid world. Harry grips his waist tighter, a silent implication in his touch. _Mine_.

Louis grins at him, Harry just about to bury his face in the crook of his neck, when Louis' face falters. It crumples in on itself, eyes widening in shock, with _fear_ as he stares straight past him and out of the car window behind Harry.

" _Fuck_ ," Louis breathes, barely audible. 

Harry shoots his head around so fast, that a short, blinding pain stretches up the side of his neck.

"Oh, God." His mouth falls open and twists with distress as standing there in the dark, with stunned blue eyes shining in the moonlight, is Niall. They lock eyes for one confusing, tense moment. Then he slowly backs away and disappears out of sight. Harry turns back to Louis who has collapsed into himself, having extracted his body from Harry's and is sitting as far as away as possible from Harry as he can. 

Harry gently tries to pry his hands from where they're tangled in his hair, but Louis flinches away. Harry tries to ignore the knife that feels like its lodged itself in his chest.

"Louis," he whispers, unsure of what he even wants to say. What can he say? Someone's seen them. _Niall_ has seen them. What will he say? Will he turn them in? Then Louis shushes him so abruptly that Harry does a full body jump at the loudness of his hiss. 

"Don't! Don't say anything, Harry! Okay? Please, just don't." Louis turns to look at him, torment twisting his sharp features.  

Harry freezes at Louis' raised voice. He takes a shuddery breath. "I'm sorry, b—"

"Don't you dare," Louis cuts in, lowly. "Don't apologise," he whispers as he shuts his eyes. 

Louis rubs his hands over his face, and exhales shakily. 

"I'll take you home, yeah?" Louis says, filling the insufferable silence, voice softer after a beat, but it's raspy and uneven, and Louis is ignoring the fact that they've been seen. _Kissing_. Passionately grabbing and pulling at each other's bodies. Boys. _They've committed a sin_ , Harry thinks wretchedly, but still, he's unable to believe for even half a second that what they've done is wrong.

His gaze falls onto Louis' hands, which are tightly clutching at the wheel, trembling. Harry holds back a sob as he turns his face toward his window, leaning his head against the cold, fogged up glass.

"It's late," Louis croaks out, like he's on the verge of tears. "I'll take you home."  Harry's dangerously close to bursting into them himself. He nods quickly, stiffly sitting up properly in the passenger seat, and staring blankly ahead as Louis starts the engine.

Harry folds his hands in his lap, turning away from Louis as he clenches his eyes shut so tight, a few tears escape in the corners, one rolling down his flushed cheek.

 _But it feels right_ , is what he wanted to say.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt anyone has actually been waiting for updates to this, but if you are reading this, thank you so much and I hope you're enjoying it :)

 

There’s a brisk knock at his bedroom door.

Harry groans, shifting and twisting restlessly beneath his cool bed sheets, starkly aware of the musty scent of polish, catches the dust particles floating above him, highlighted by the slither of sunlight from behind the net curtains.

 _Don’t you dare_ , he’d said. _Don’t apologise._

_Don’t apologise._

He smothers his face into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the noise, pretending the world outside his bedroom door doesn’t exist. He’s become quite good at that recently. It’s far more comforting to wallow within these four walls than to venture out and face what he will have to confront at some point—dwelling on soul-crushing fear is far more healthy, of course.

It's been easier than he thought—staying away from the club.

Only the nightmares he’s had of stepping foot there again only to be shunned, exposed, arrested even, are convincing enough arguments to not go anywhere near the club for the foreseeable future, scaring him into keeping to the confines of the very place he deemed a prison in itself.

But still, no matter how hard he tries not to let them, his thoughts are constantly, mercilessly held hostage by the image of Louis’ set, remote gaze ahead, as he drove Harry home in complete silence.

Louis stopped the car outside his house without a word, gnawing on his bottom lip so forcefully, Harry half-wondered if he’d make it bleed, and sat there, still staring in front of him into the night.

There was so much to say, so much that needed to be said. He wanted to ask Louis so much.

But all Harry could think to say, all that he _wanted_ to tell him was that it hadn’t felt wrong.

_Don’t apologise._

The moment their lips touched, Harry was in a daze, unable to connect what was happening with reality. What he’d wanted for so long, what he thought he could never have was actually happening. He was kissing Louis. And what’s more is, Louis was kissing him.

 _Louis_ kissed _Harry_. Not the other way round.

Louis initiated this.

He wanted this like he did.

And Harry was overwhelmed, deliriously happy as he parted his lips and let himself drown completely in Louis, all of him, drinking him in until he was full of him.

Until it stopped.

If Louis didn’t believe Harry had to apologise, then Harry didn’t believe Louis had any reason to either.

“Louis, I’m not sorry for what happened,” he said, watching him carefully for a furrow of the brow or a twitch in the corner of his mouth, allowing the words to suspend there in the thick, wired air. Louis didn’t move a muscle. “I’d do it again,” he said resolutely, his stubbornness creeping in at long last, determined to hold on.

“I’d do it again...,” he admitted, hesitating before he continued, fingertips itching to touch, “because I haven’t felt like a whole person in so long. Since the day I arrived here I’ve felt hopeless, and lonely, as though I had no idea of who I was anymore. Perhaps I never really knew before. I was just drifting through the days aimlessly. But then I met you, and it’s as though everything fell into place. You awakened parts of me I wasn’t convinced even existed, parts of me that I tried to bury, push to the furthest corners of my mind, but with you... I don't want to. Everything feels... _right_ ,” his voice caught in the word, could feel the hot sting of tears rising to the surface. “When I’m with you, everything feels just as it should be. Before you I was lost, Louis. I’m better for knowing you. So, no. I won’t apologise, and neither should you.”

The silence was as deafening as it was shattering. He patiently waited for a response, for _something_ , but what he received in return was an the most awful sounding, stifled sob as Louis turned his head even further away so Harry couldn’t see.

Harry’s heart constricted, bottom lip quivering.

He wanted to reach out so much, wanted so badly to hold him, to comfort him as he listened to Louis’ muffled, quiet sobbing.

Accepting that Louis was in no state to respond, he reluctantly made to move when Louis suddenly gripped onto his wrist. Firm, chilly fingers dug into his flesh almost painfully, possessively. Louis had wetness smudged around his beautiful blue eyes, glistening in the amber glow of the streetlamps. Harry allowed his own unshed tears to fall.

They stared at each other, miserable.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis finally said, voice hoarse and so incredibly sad that it broke Harry’s heart. "It's not you—you're so, so—" He wiped at his face, frustrated. "Harry," he pleaded. "I'm so sorry—"

“ _No_ ,” Harry said irritably. “I said not to, didn't I?" Don’t apologise. Why should we? Please, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

Louis took away his hand.

“Niall won’t say anything,” he said, barely audible, voice stilted.

“Louis, look at me.”

“He’s my friend, a good lad. He won’t tell,” Louis carried on.

“Look at me, please,” Harry pleaded.

Louis finally looked at him, face blank. “You should go.”

Harry felt a surge of anger, and exited the car, dejected and forlorn, nausea rising up his throat. He'd shut himself in the bathroom, and vigorously splashed cold water in his face, trying desperately to convince himself it was all a dream. One that he’d wake up from any moment now.

He didn’t, obviously.

Another knock.

Harry rolls onto his back and stares blankly up at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, white sheets pooled around his middle.

It’s probably Mary. Bless her. She’s fussed over Harry since the night he got home, woken up by his inability to keep quiet, finding him slumped in a heap against the front door sobbing into his palms. Usually Mary is quite stern—despite knowing him since he was a young boy. She had travelled down with him to London from their old Cheshire home. His mother had only been able to spare a couple of their own maids to join Harry, along with another maid, Helen. The rest, unfortunately had to be let go because they could no longer afford to keep them on. But since their arrival, she’s been rather curt and has generally kept to herself and her daily household tasks.

However for some reason, this time, seeing Harry in a pitiful mess on the floor has played with her more sentimental nature. Perhaps he reminded her of a time when he was a insecure small child, stumbling into the kitchen in tears after being denied a place with the other children outside in their tree house, and tending to his cuts and grazes when he’d been a bit too boisterous in an effort to join in with playtime, his little legs dangling off of the work surface, surrounded by bowls and flour and freshly baked raspberry pies.

In any case, she’s been wonderful to him. Even going as far as covering for Harry and pretending he’s delirious with a fever.

His uncle has excused Harry from public outings and social gatherings due to his illness. His fake illness. (Unless being lovesick counts?) And has also instructed, or rather _ordered_ him to stay in bed, confined to his room lest he catch whatever dreadful sickness he believes Harry has.

Harry bristles at the real reason he’s been on bed rest. He feels so foolish, so ridiculous.

But that unsettling thought is fortunately cut short as the knocking resumes.

Harry kicks off his covers and doesn’t bother with a dressing gown. He skulks over to the door, expecting Mary to be standing there with a tray and a pot of tea or something or other, when instead he’s greeted with a pair of familiar, warm brown eyes.

“Liam,” he says, mouth agape in surprise, feeling his face break into a smile for the first time in almost five days.

“Harry,” Liam echoes cheerfully, dressed in a crisp grey suit, hazelnut brown hair coiffed and immediately bridges the gap between them, pulling Harry in for an affectionate hug. Harry holds on tightly, grateful for someone, a friend, to simply hold him without any qualms or hesitations.

“What are you doing here?” Harry wonders aloud, a small smile of surprise still etched on his probably pale, blotchy face, appearing worse for wear in a loose undershirt, hair a rumpled muddle of flat curls.

“Mary wrote to me. She sounded ever so worried and desperate by her tone. Asked if I could up to visit you,” he informs him, as he walks into Harry's bedroom and closes the door quietly behind him, “because you’re having a rather trying time of lately.” His voice is gentle, calm and brimming with concern. “Are you alright, Harry?" he asks, brown eyes imploring. "You look like hell.”

“Maybe that’s where I belong,” Harry grumbles bitterly, mostly to himself but Liam catches it. He always catches Harry’s moments of self-doubt and treats him more like a younger brother than anything else, always looking out for him, sometimes even going as far to infantise him a little, scolding him and drenching him in subtle affection. Harry’s extremely fond of him.

Liam’s brows furrow considerably. “Harry, has something happened? Has your father tried to contact you?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I—I mean it’s not why I’m like this.”

“Like what exactly? Because you don’t look like you have a fever to me,” he smirks weakly, mouth forming into a taut line when Harry doesn’t attempt to explain further.

Harry merely stands there, barefoot, in front of a concerned Liam, his forehead creased so prominently from frowning, a vein may burst open. Harry absently fiddles with the undone buttons of his shirt as he stares past Liam distractedly, unsure of how to begin to even explain a single thing that's happened recently.

Not when everything leads back to Louis.

No, he can’t tell him the real reason he’s in this state. He trusts Liam implicitly but he’s not ready to disclose the intimate details regarding his illicit feelings for his best friend, despite knowing Liam would never reject him for it, even if he may not understand it. Liam is rather orthodox and very sensible in how he lives his life.

“Harry,” he sighs, “come on. It’s not healthy to bottle up your emotions in this way, closing yourself off from the world. That's not you. Besides, the last thing I need is to have to climb London Bridge to talk you down from it. How would I ever get up there in these trousers?”

Harry laughs, truly, and playfully gives his friend a shove to the shoulder. “The sad thing is I doubt you’re joking.”

Liam smiles at him, warmly and Harry exhales, a tiny fraction of the heavy weight on his chest lifting. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning his bare feet inwards.

“Well, when you are ready to talk to me, I’m here,” he says, gently.

“Thank you, Liam. I’m so glad you’re here, really.”

Liam nudges him with his arm. “Oh, and uh, by the way,” he starts dubiously, “Edward wanted me to ask you... well, _tell_ you, that should you be on the mend, he wants you to accompany him to a dinner this evening with the Horans'.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Then let’s the name sink in. Horan. Niall’s family. Niall. Who saw them kissing in the front seat’s of Louis’ car. He swallows down another surge of nausea and a wave of anxiety at having to sit down at a dinner table with him, knowing that he knows.

Liam must notice Harry’s discomfort because he furrows a brow, leaning forward. “You don’t have to go? I’ll tell him you’re still unwell, that it’s highly contagious. Maybe then I won’t have to go either,” he says, making an amused noise in the back of his throat.

But he can’t stay stuck within these four walls forever. Perhaps if he gets on with his own life, everything else will fall back together on its own.

He can dream it anyway.

“No, I’ll go,” Harry drawls.

“You’re sure?”

Harry nods, smiling faintly. “What time are we leaving?”

“Around seven,” Liam smiles and claps a hand over his back, giving it a couple of reassuring, masculine pats. Harry raises an eyebrow, which causes Liam’s face to split into laughter and he takes Harry’s face in his hands, kissing him firmly on the cheek. Harry giggles and squirms out of his embrace.

He has Liam with him. It will be fine.

**

“Here,” Liam whispers, discreetly slipping a flask into Harry’s unsuspecting hand. His eyes widen when he realises what Liam’s given him, then can’t help but smirk brightly.

“Liam James Payne, what _has_ happened to you while I’ve been away?” he teases theatrically. “I am shocked! You’ve been corrupted,” he chuckles, smiling harder as Liam returns his grin.

Both are wiped off by his uncle’s stern gaze from where they’re standing for pre-drinks. A waiter then comes over to their party and escorts them to a large round table in the middle of the restaurant where the Horans are already seated, ready to greet their guests with genuine smiles across their bright eyed faces. They’re one of the more humble families in society, far less snooty than most of the elite. But perhaps that’s because they’re Irish. They all exchange pleasant greetings and take their places at the table.

Niall’s gaze instantly finds him, posture stiff and appearing incredibly awkward as he lets his eyes settle on him and Harry freezes. Niall doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t aim that toothy grin at him like he usually does in greeting either, and it sends something uncomfortable flitting around his innards. 

Niall nods once and takes a swig of his red wine, interrupted by a gentlemen he's far more pleased to see and interested in conversing with. Harry tries not to dwell on how Niall feels about him now. Or what he no longer feels...

Instinctively, Harry smooths down his charcoal satin jacket, if for nothing else but to give his suddenly unsteady hands something to focus on. Harry sits down, impassively scanning his surroundings, rapidly feeling as empty as he did when he first arrived in London. Liam’s strong, comforting hand puts a temporary end to that as it rests on his shoulder. Harry glances up to see Liam smile down affectionately at him, calming him down as he pulls out his chair and takes his seat next to him, handing him a cigarette which Harry gratefully accepts and lights it hurriedly.

Harry finds himself smiling back, devouring a much needed exhale of smoke, appreciative and so glad for Liam’s company. At least they can drown out the dull chatter of business and the grating voices of those that they have the displeasure of dining with this evening—and avoid the heavy stare of Niall’s eyes on him from across the table. He doesn’t know why he’s even here. Perplexed at why his uncle would even invite him, let alone actually _insist_ he attend.

The reason for that however, becomes perfectly clear once a young lady with a short bob of crimped blonde hair sits down next to Harry. She’s beautiful in a black dress, tassels and all, and a feathered fringe at the hem. A black headband to match. She’s the poster girl for the latest fashions it seems.

She beams at him as she settles, a blinding smile and big blue eyes boring into him. “How do you do,” she greets him cordially. 

Harry opens his mouth to speak when his uncle decides to pipe up. Typical. He should have guessed.

“Harry, may I introduce to you Miss Perrie Edwards. Miss Edwards, this is my nephew, Harry. I believe you’ve met before?” he says in his fake, half-arsed attempt at appearing affable and socially inclined, clutching a tumbler of whiskey. A flash of a similar pair of cerulean eyes instead paint themselves on the backs of his eyelids as he stares at Perrie, forcing on his best fake smile. He can do miles better at amiable social interactions than his uncle when he has to.

Perrie laughs. "I'm not sure we have, but hello," she smiles. It's quite contagious. 

“It's a pleasure to be acquainted with you,” Harry murmurs as he takes her hand and places a chaste kiss to the back of it, smiling at her with all the charm he can muster—which is hardly difficult since she's already coming across especially lovely to be around. Harry thinks, should they be forced to spend more time together, they could be great friends.

She seems oddly delighted too, a hint of a knowing smirk on her scarlet drenched lips aimed at him.

Harry momentarily falters in confusion—clearly he's missing something?

“No, the pleasure is all mine,” she replies eagerly, eyes glittering as they dart across the room, searching, still smirking, but it’s not unkindly. Quite the opposite. 

Harry follows her gaze and nearly stops breathing when passing their table is Louis.

_Louis._

His breath catches in his throat.

He knows his eyes probably widen comically as he takes in the fact that _Louis_ is here, accompanied by his mother, and another man with dark, greying hair whom Harry assumes to be Louis' father—either oblivious to their table, or outright ignoring it—Harry doesn't blame them.

Then Louis' eyes lock with Harry's as he walks by their table, close enough to touch.

And Louis does just that, gingerly brushing the back of his shoulder with soft fingertips, quickly disguising the movement by tightening his tie. And he looks stunning in his matching charcoal suit, not too dissimilar from Harry's. He winks at him once as he turns his head, subtle, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gesture but Harry catches it, and with it, he regains his beating heart.

He smiles happily to himself, earning a quizzical look from Liam as he lowers his head to cover up the absolute relief and the joy he feels from Louis' unexpected appearance.

And Louis' not angry with him. What happened between them—the kiss, being seen by Niall—it doesn't _seem_ to have changed Louis' familiar need to touch in any way. He’s acknowledging him, albeit in secret, but still, he's actively seeking Harry’s gaze from across the restaurant as he settles down at his own table, suppressing a gorgeous smile at a significantly smaller party to Harry's to the right of the room.

Beneath Harry's shirt, his heart is beating wildly, thumping roughly against his chest, and it's severe and uncontrollable and all he wants in this moment is to go to him, to wrap his body around his, sink into him and bury himself there, and never leave.

Because it hits him.

Just how much he's missed him, that constant ache in hist chest finally lifting, and he can breathe.

The way his presence lights up a room, how his eyes glitter in the bright, golden hue. His stare magnetic, addicting, maddening.

"Know him?" Perrie pipes up then, knocking Harry right out of his dazed stupor, a silly grin plastered across his face. He's sweating. It's hot in here, no? It is. It's sweltering all of a sudden. He gulps down half his glass of wine, and tries to focus his attention on what Perrie is saying, distantly aware of Edward's scrutinizing stare as he watches the two of them interact.

"Sorry, what was that?" Harry might as well be slurring, he can't control the grin on his face or the erratic pulse rate. Perrie watches him, bright amusement in her eyes as she stifles a giggle in her hand. She takes a dainty sip from her glass, setting it down robustly.

"Woops, not very ladylike of me," she says dryly. "Oh, drats," she winks. She tilts her head, eyes wide with curiosity. She's staring almost as much as Edward, though it's obviously a much kinder watchfulness than his uncle's."I was just saying," she gestures over to Louis' table. "Are you familiar with Tomlinson over there?"

Harry whips his head in Louis' direction on instinct. Louis' laughing and in good spirits as he pours out wine for his mother, who is also laughing. Now there's a sight he didn't think he'd see.

"We've become quite close since Louis arrived in London. Quite the character, isn't he?" she says, a knowing twinkle in her eye, tone suggestive. Harry's brows knit together.

"Indeed, he is," Harry says, catching Louis' eyes again. They crinkle back at him almost shyly. He needs to talk to him, clear the air, desperate for confirmation that everything is alright. Even though it's quite clear Louis wants Harry in his life as much as he wants him and all the dire hopelessness he's been feeling since that night is rapidly melting away. 

"We talk about you often, you know," she says, a little more hushed as she points to a silver case of cigarettes. Harry takes one out and holds it for her while she uses her lighter to ignite the tip. She grips it delicately between her slim, pale fingers and inhales a deep drag, smirk never leaving the upward curve of her mouth. 

"About me?" Harry asks, clearing his throat.

"Of course," she insists, laughing good-naturedly. "Tommo over there never shuts up about you. I'm sick of hearing your name to be honest," she teases. "He's missed you. Been moping all week. Turned into a right bore, would barely speak to anyone at the club."

Harry frowns at the thought of Louis being as miserable as he has since that night. He's grateful for the affirmation but it still stirs something unpleasant in his gut. "He has?"

Perrie eyes him attentively as she exhales, a haze of smoke obscuring their uncle from prying too closely. "Mmhmm. He seems to be quite taken with you. Extremely fond of you and your charming company. Besotted, even," she adds cautiously, gauging his reaction. 

"Besotted?" Harry repeats, chuckling affably, doing his best to remain neutral, though he knows it's probably too late for that.

"Harry, you needn't worry," she says seriously, quietly, her face a mixture of understanding and pity. Perrie seems particularly perceptive, that's for certain. Even if she hadn't been friends with Louis, Harry predicts she would have known anyway. It seems to be written all over his face if one knows what to look for. He's sure that's more of a bad thing.

Perrie smiles brightly at him, close-mouthed scarlet lips reassuring him that she will keep his secret.

"Thank you," Harry replies sincerely, smiling back. He glances up to catch his uncle's eyes dart away from them, probably already planning their June wedding at this rate.

Harry fixes his gaze over to Louis' table once more, seeking his, wondering if Louis can feel his stare even when he's not looking, when a young brunette woman in a white beaded dress sits down next to him, and plants an affectionate, lingering kiss to Louis' cheek, her eyes still locked on Louis as she reaches for her glass, bringing it to her lips, where a teasing smile lies.

Harry feels his stomach twist.

Louis returns her smile enthusiastically and reaches for his tumbler of whiskey, as always, his eyes unwittingly flickering to Harry, just as he folds him arm around the back of her chair.

He seems to catch himself because his smile drops, a look of miserable remorse replacing it. Or something like that. He looks like he's attempting to discreetly mouth something at him. Reassurance, perhaps? At least Harry hopes that's what his face means. Either way, Harry gets up unceremoniously, almost tripping over his feat, head pounding heavily.

He feels Liam's hand steady him. "Harry?" he inquires, brows furrowed. "What's wrong? Are you ill? Do you need me to come with you?"

"No, no. I'm fine," he lies. Louis' gaze is burning into the back of his head. He needs to get out. He just needs to leave. "I need to use to the restroom, is all. Excuse me," he says, faking an over-compensating smile towards his party, stalking off in lengthy glides to get some air, blocking out the picture of Louis and the girl leaning over him, as if they were...

Perrie shoots him a sympathetic look as he leaves, as does Niall, even, flitting his head towards Louis.

Harry's eyes sting as he flings the entrance's doors open a tad too forcefully, and stumbles into the cool night air, breathing it in sharply as he presses the backs of his palms to his closed, dampening eyelids.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs I listened to while writing this chapter are 'Sleep' by Azure Ray, 'Bones' by Dustin Tebbutt.


	6. Chapter Six

_My Blood - Ellie Goulding_

* * *

 

 

Unfortunately, it’s surprisingly mild outside.

Harry’d much rather a cold snap right about now. Something icy and harsh to slap him back to his senses because _what is he thinking?_  

What was he even hoping for exactly?

That he could somehow miraculously be able to choose to be with Louis and everything would be perfectly fine and dandy without any repercussions? That they could just live their lives in peace, never have to keep looking over their shoulders?

He laughs to himself bitterly, scolding himself for falling back into his childlike imaginings and dreams.

He turns around, spots his party in the window, clustered together in the far left of the room in the view of the windows. The candles are now lit at the table, Niall’s family all sporting blushing, toothy smiles, bringing the rims of sparkling champagne flutes to their laughing lips.

Perrie seems to be fully occupied in a conversation with Liam—who is relentlessly shooting concerned glances his way, brows knitted with worry one moment, and then crinkling with genuine laughter at something Perrie has said the next—and he's glad for it, would rather be left alone to wallow for at least a few quiet minutes.

His uncle though, of course has a particularly deep scowl on his face, eyes on the door awaiting Harry to stride back in, likely silently seething with embarrassment at Harry’s premature absence from the dinner in which he expects Perrie and himself to make a connection, what with the Edwards being one of the wealthiest families in society. It would certainly help their status and credibility, as well as their money issues. And of course his uncle knows that.

Harry shakes his head irritably, exhaling deeply, desperately craving a cigarette. He stares with wet eyes, gaze falling upon little bundles of deep crimson rose buds, flourishing beautifully in a row of small, marble stoned flower pots, placed along the front walls of the restaurant. Beneath the golden blush and auburn glow of the restaurant window’s lights, Harry absently registers that the rose buds compliment Harry’s own cerise blossom, pinned to the lapel of his ebony jacket and identical shirt, a matching bow tie fastened to his collar.

Louis is quite fond of this particular bow tie, he remembers miserably. 

Harry heavily plonks himself down onto the cold ground, partly facing them, long limbed body angled to the side towards the flurry of perfectly kept bushes, arms wrapped around his legs, his knees drawn up.

It’s all very dramatic, juvenile. He knows this, can very well feel the disapproving glares and glances that pass by him practically burning into the side of his profile as faceless, glitzy bodies enter the restaurant, unimpressed to be greeted with a sullen boy sitting on the dirty ground, green eyes downcast and glassy, and alright, maybe a tad petulant too.

Well. Perhaps more than a tad.

He could use a large tumbler of whiskey about now.

The muffled voices of the guests inside are jarring as he tries to pull himself together, lifting up his hands to rub furiously at his temples in the hope his headache will subside. Harry tips his head back, and gazes sightlessly upwards to the night sky, dotted with bright stars.

Harry blinks, unable to rid himself of the image of Louis and the young woman, exchanging seemingly carefree grins, ones just as Harry and Louis have always shared. It stirs an intense stab of jealousy within him, poking and prodding spitefully at his innards. He wonders whether they’d have engaged in a chaste kiss if Louis had not seen Harry staring as though his bloody heart had been ripped right from his chest.

Of course he had someone else.

How could he have been so naive as to believe he was the only one Louis' attention caught.

Someone right. Someone he’s _supposed_ to be with. _Allowed_ to be with.

Harry grimaces at the thought; it's unpleasant enough that it makes him want to bring up the wine he’s consumed thus far tonight.

But _Harry_ needs him.

And if he can’t have Louis like _that_ , having him in his life is still a monumental _need_ he can’t escape, something he won’t ever stop wanting, missing. His friendship with Louis is something he simply cannot live without.

Not anymore.

Harry sighs, feeling incredibly foolish and childish and hopeless, like the world is crumbling in on itself while he stands stone still in the middle of the chaos of it all, just distantly watching it all fall down around him.

He hears feet snapping against the marble of the floor of the front entrance.

Louis.

He's followed him out here.

His heart drops somewhere near his backside.

“Harry,” he says, eyes trained on where Harry sits on the pavement.

There’s an excruciatingly long silence.

“How—“ he begins, trailing off. “Uh... how are you? How have you been?” Louis fumbles, hesitant and eager, and all too sad, like he’s not sure how to even attempt to speak to Harry anymore. 

It makes Harry feel even more awful, that somehow while managing to fall for Louis, he's losing the best friend he's ever had.

He swallows down a rising sob, and risks a glance upwards. Louis’ eyes are on the ground, forlorn. Harry hates it—a heavy pang of guilt tugs at his chest for making such a scene. He always was one for silly theatrics. 

“Shouldn’t you be entertaining your guests?” Harry wonders aloud, barely uttering the words.

“Shouldn’t you?” Louis replies slowly.

Harry shrugs.

Louis walks over to where he’s sitting, hunched up on the ground. Louis’ brows are furrowed, and he’s hesitating slightly, comically rotating on the section of concrete, apparently debating whether or not it’s clean enough to sit on. Harry wants to laugh, but he bites down on his lip to suppress it, wanting Louis to work for this, wanting him to at least acknowledge what's happening between them.

Whatever _this_  may be. This tangible, unspoken pull between them that he can't shake, that is as bewildering and confusing as it is something Harry so desperately, unapologetically wants.

“You didn’t answer my first question," Louis reminds him. He's being so cautious, gentle. It's tearing apart Harry's insides. 

Wordlessly, when Harry still doesn’t answer, Louis joins him on the ground, mirroring Harry’s position. Harry closes his eyes as he listens to the familiar sound of his jagged breathing, noting Louis’ obvious discomfort and nervousness around him. Good. Harry shouldn’t be the only one always miserable. Not when Louis has so often been the source of his misery as of late.

But of course he doesn’t mean that.

Not even a little.

With Louis, he’s the happiest he’s been in a long, long time. It’s just tiring, is all, wishing that things were different, when he knows it’s pointless.

Louis rests his hand on the concrete between their tailored suited bodies, a tiny bit of space all that’s separating the two of them. 

He’s so close. So close, and Harry wants nothing more than to rest his own hand atop of Louis’. So that’s what he does, engulfs Louis’ hand with his own. It’s balmy and the heat of the contact sends a warm tingle through his body, and an overwhelming sense of longing surges inside his chest for the boy next to him.

Harry always wants to be next to him, wants little else than to live his life entwined with Louis', skin itching to be in his arms this very moment that he can almost feel it whir within his bloodstream. And oh. He wants too much. Wants far too much. It doesn’t stop him though. It never does.

“I’ve missed you,” Louis tries lightly, nudging Harry’s arm with his knuckles, lingering on the fabric of his ebony suit a moment longer; they caress down his arm until he almost reaches the exposed skin of Harry’s hand. He stops abruptly before their skin touches.

“Have you?” Harry answers monotonously. He almost winces at the detached sound of his own voice.

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis insists, bemused, the conviction in his sending shivers up his spine. “Of course I've missed you, Harry.”

Harry stays quiet. Louis doesn't ask if Harry has missed him too.

“You haven’t been at the club lately,” Louis points out carefully. Harry's eyes dart away from his gaze as he sees Louis' cheeks flush with... shame? Guilt? 

“Thought it best to stay away from it due to... recent," he clears his throat uneasily, "events.”

He chances another look at Louis sitting quietly beside him.

"Harry..."

"No. Don't," Harry pleads. "Please."

"Don't what?" Louis frowns, confusion knitting his brows.

"I know what you're going to say," Harry mumbles under his breath but Louis catches it. "It's fine. I understand."

"Do you?" Louis raises his eyebrows.

Harry looks at him. Louis' staring back at him with a resolute light in his eyes. "What happened the other night—"

Harry audibly takes a harsh breath; it immediately prompts Louis to place a warm hand atop his knee. Harry freezes. "I don't regret it, Harry," he says firmly. "I... I wanted... I wanted to kiss you, and I'm not sorry. Not at all."

Harry stares.

"I'm only sorry for the way I reacted," he winces. "I was just scared. Everything was suddenly so real when I realised Niall had seen us. I panicked. What if someone else had been there instead of Niall? But I needn't have been. Niall... he's a good friend, Harry. He wouldn't do— I'm sorry, Harry, I really am. And if I made you think in any way that I didn't want it as much as you..." he sighs. "I just could have handled the situation better, is what I'm trying to say."

"No,"Harry whispers. "I understand that. I was scared too." He meets Louis' uncertain gaze, willing him to see everything Harry can't say.

Louis drops his gaze, starts to fiddle with his hands.

“What you saw in there,” Louis starts, clearing his throat. His voice is timid, still hesitant. “That—she wasn't—it's not—” he stammers, struggling, fists clenched together in his lap, small and soft. "It wasn't what you thought," he sighs, a scowl forming, face half obscured in shadows and a golden hue.

“And what did you think it was that I thought?” Harry inquires slowly, an octave lower.

“That perhaps you thought I was..." Louis brushes a stray strand of hair that's escaped from his smoothed quiff, " _with_  her? That we’re together, or something of the sort?” Louis answers quietly. “But we’re  _not_ ,” he insists. "I'm not promised to anyone. At least not yet." Harry’s heart thuds a bit faster. “Everyone in there, all those arrogant, lavishly dressed people mingling with their cigars and their flutes of champagne. They all want to marry their children off at these things. Want their young sons and daughters to form business connections rather than friendships or genuine affection for each other,” he scoffs. “Form ties with people of their kind. Of their fortune," he rolls his eyes. "Not that I have a particularly large fortune anymore,” he laughs airily. 

Harry grimaces briefly at the indirect mention of his father, but still he listens with rapt attention, hanging off Louis' every word, his every twitch and quirk of his mouth, watches as the shadows of his eyelashes fan over his cheekbones in the dim, obscured light of the restaurant.

“It’s all for show, you know. That 'friendly' display in there," he says dryly, quietly. "It's just for my parent’s sake. She's in love with a lad from the club I know but her parent's disapprove of him. He's not from money, you see. Not in the slightest. It's a farce, a disguise for us both, of sorts."

Harry's heart thuds faster still. 

"For everyone’s sake, really. It helps her and me. Keeps away the pushy socialites and their parents from not so subtly thrusting their daughters in my face," he nudges Harry's arm, and Harry's lips quirk. "Or mine from throwing me in poor, unsuspecting young ladies' faces themselves. Believe me, no one wants that,” he says wryly, a smirk lingering on his pale lips.

 _I do_ , Harry thinks pitifully.  _I want that_. 

God, he misses him so much.

Harry finds his vision zeroing in on Louis' lips, red and shiny from the wine, remembers the way they felt, moving against his, so seamlessly, urgent and soft, the sharp burn of Louis' growing stubble rubbing against the side of his mouth, remembers how he never wanted to stop kissing them.

How he wants to kiss them now.

Louis sneaks a glance at him. Harry’s already looking of course and Louis smiles, albeit somewhat ruefully back at him.

But as the silence drags on, the air around them begins to quieten, relaxes, smooths out like velvet, faces softening. 

“I jumped to conclusions," Harry says abruptly on a sigh. "The way I made a scene in there," he shakes his head. "We'd barely even sat down and I was already throwing a strop. I'm afraid I am ridiculously dramatic, Louis. My mother always said so. Forgive me?" he half-smiles.

"S'quite alright, Harold. I'll just add it to the neverending list of things I'm still learning about you. I always love learning about you," he murmurs, eyes soft and penetrating. 

Harry's breath almost catches. "I suppose my mind immediately sought out the worst case scenario,” Harry chuckles, bowing his head and staring at his shoes.

“I don’t blame you. Honestly, Harry."

“I’m s—”

“Ah, ah,” Louis interrupts, pointing a finger at him. “No, more apologising, okay?” he grins at last. 

Harry gladly returns the grin, pleased that, if nothing else comes of it, they’re on the right track to what they had before at least. Though a burning hope has already taken up residence in his chest.

“Well, my uncle in there clearly wants me to marry Miss Edwards,” he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve been informed you're quite well acquainted?"

“Yes! Perrie’s a lovely lady. A diamond, really. She was one of the first friends I made here when I started attending the club. "She um...” Louis trails off, appearing somewhat hesitant to elaborate. "She—"

“She told me,” Harry cuts in. “She told me not to worry?" he says slowly, unsure.

Louis smiles and it calms the jackrabbiting beat of Harry's heart. It’s only a small smile, tentative and so unlike Louis, but it’s there. Perrie is right, Harry really is overwhelmingly besotted with him. There's no hiding it now. He wonders if Louis knows just how much he affects him merely by being present in his space. “Like, I said,” Louis continues, “Perrie's a good one. She'll look out for us,” he assures him, face serious, and eyes gleaming with a hint of hope. "Niall too, in case you were wondering."

Harry nods.

"Louis?"

"Hmm?"

"I've missed you too."

Their stares lock, coy smiles hidden beneath the glinting golden light behind them when Liam suddenly barges out of the entrance doors in a panic, startling the doorman as he whizzes by, eyes falling onto Harry.

“Oh, thank Christ! You’re here,” Liam announces, his forehead creased in a series of solemn lines. “I honestly thought I’d have to drive around the city like a madman searching for your sorry arse all night. I was convinced you'd honestly taken me seriously about London Bridge earlier, or that I had at least, stupidly, planted the idea in that dramatic head of yours. But you’re not," he sighs with relief. "You’re here, thank God. So, are you alright?” he asks, out of breath, his hazel eyes slightly crazed.

Then they fall onto Louis.

"Oh," he flounders, taken aback. "I didn't notice you there. Hello, I don't believe we've met?” he eyes Louis curiously, a guarded expression surfacing on his now serious face. Harry stares at him fondly.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis says automatically, bright and easy, immediately standing up to shake his head. “I’m a friend of Harry’s,” he says, charming.

Harry looks between them both, amused. Louis is all smiles, ready to have Liam fall in love with him too probably, while Liam appears stoic and stiff, ready to shield Harry and jump to his defense should Louis show any sign of upsetting Harry.

Liam eyes Louis warily. “Liam Payne,” he says, offering his own hand in kind. “Also a friend of Harry’s.”

“Ah, well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Payne." Louis takes it easily, shaking his hand with an air of perfect confidence and composure. 

"Liam, please."

"Liam, then," he smiles politely. "What are you having?”

“Excuse me?”

“Drink? Liquor? Your poison? What will it be? I’ll top you up. Any friend of Harry's is a friend of mine," he says, smile blinding.

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. We’ve plenty of wine and liquor at our table."

"Harry says you drink a lot of whiskey? I'll send you over an extra bottle seeing as Styles Senior over there seems to be drinking your table dry," he winks. Harry said no such thing, but Louis' got a knack for saying the right things in social greetings.

Liam's eyes flick to Harry. He smiles as him reassuringly and Liam's shoulders visibly start to relax, his stiff, guarded posture loosening, and Liam even attempts one his pleasant, good natured smilea Louis’ way. “Why don't you join us?” he says, surprisingly. Harry raises his eyebrows. 

Louis looks to Harry, smile slipping and mouth slightly parting, poised to decline.

“Louis has his own party attend to, Liam. They'll be expecting him back, won't they?” Harry says kindly, steering Louis’ parentage away before Liam guesses where his family stand on Harry's own. That can of worms can wait a while longer.

"Oh, yes. Of course," Liam says, meeting Harry's eyes. "How silly of me."

“But perhaps we can all meet up at the club later on? When dinner is over?” Harry subtly rolls his eyes a little in Louis' direction, a secret question beneath it, and ends on a smirk.

“Sounds like a plan,” Louis agrees, grin back in place, his eyes stuck on Harry.

“Alright, shall we go back inside, Liam? I’m sure Uncle Edward will be bursting a vein in his forehead, seeing as we've both now left our guests to themselves so early on in the evening.”

“Yes, indeed,” Liam lifts a brow, sighing exaggeratedly.

The three of them make their way back inside, Liam and Harry departing for their own table as Louis sends a subtle, lingering look Harry’s way, a secret smile teasing at his lips for his eyes only.

“Harry, is there a problem?” his uncle says slowly, eyes narrowed and calculating as he reaches the table. Niall's eyes subtly flit between the two, his gaze falling and lingering on Louis as he returns to his own seat. Harry meets his eyes calmly, and after a beat or two, Niall smiles easily, shooting him a quick wink.

Harry feels ten times better already. Maybe there really is hope yet. “No, there’s no problem at all. Everything is positively splendid, dear uncle,” he answers wryly, reaching inside his jacket for a cigarette, taking gratefully Perrie’s already proffered lighter, her eyes twinkling with mischief, crimson lips pursed together in a sly, teasing smirk.

“Oh, is that so?” Perrie glances over to Louis’ table, attempting to suppress an amused noise in the back of her throat, and failing spectacularly. Liam looks a second away from patting her back but she waves him off with a gloved hand, returning to her glass of wine, smirk still there. 

Edward shoots them an intrigued glance, likely mentally picking out the flower arrangements—if he was interested in that sort of thing. Luckily for Harry, he isn’t. It won't stop him forcing the two of them together though. He braces himself for many future outings with this in mind. 

“It is indeed,” he says with an easy grin and Harry pretends he doesn’t notice Perrie’s smugness as he sits back down at the table, feeling far lighter, far less hopeless—he’s now hope _ful_ , rather, his body overflowing, brimming with buoyant possibilities, of whimsical promises and Louis’ breathy giggles simmering beneath his skin.

And feeling more free than he’s felt in forever.

Harry brings the rim of his wine glass to his lips, attempting to fight off the grin that threatens to split his face in two.

**

It’s past three in the morning when a faint tapping on his window pane stirs Harry from his dreamless sleep. Something like a scattering of pebbles are being thrown relentlessly against the glass.

Harry frowns at the odd noise. He half-suspects it to be Liam, drunk and in jovial spirits from this evening’s trip to the speakeasy he was dragged off to with Niall and his friends, now locked out and probably expecting Harry to let him in, when he remembers Liam came home only a couple of hours after he left himself.

It’s the first time he’s been able to fall to sleep easily in almost a week, and he’s rather displeased at the interruption.

Though when he pads over to the window, bare feet sticking to the floorboards, night shirt halfway draped over his shoulder on one side, all annoyance at being woken dissipates when he sees who the culprit of the tapping is.

It’s Louis.

Louis’ here, still chucking stones at his bedroom window in the middle of the night, clothes rumpled and his hair mussed, grinning from ear to ear as he gazes up at Harry, hands in his pockets and looking far too pleased with himself. And he’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so. Harry suddenly has the overpowering urge to hold him. Curl around him and fit his body against his. Press their chests together and kiss him until his lips are chapped and raw.

“Louis,” he whisper shouts, a wide grin spreading across his cheeks instantly as he quietly opens the window, holding back the curtains. “What are you doing here?”

“Harry, are you awake?” he whisper shouts back, face etched in a permanent smile, lids drooping sleepily.

Harry adores him.

“Yes, Lou,” he laughs breathlessly. “I’m awake. You can see me. I’m right here.” He waves.

“Well by Jove, you are! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Curly,” he says, and the words are so achingly soft and gentle, it makes Harry’s heart tighten. He wants to scoop him up in his arms this instant.

“Can I come in?” he asks, attempting again to whisper but ends up in a loud fit of giggles. He’s drunk. Harry couldn’t make it to the club after this evening's dinner, much to Louis' and his own disappointment, and reluctantly went home with his uncle not far behind, watching him like a hawk. It was unnerving to say the least, but it was more incredibly infuriating as he couldn’t get another moment with Louis alone.

“Shh!” Harry hisses, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up and pouring out of his lips. He tries to stifle the noise with his palm. “You’ll wake the entire street!”

"I won't!"

"You will!"

“Well can I come up then? Please? Because I bloody will if you carry on playing silly buggers!”

“You’re insufferable!”

Harry gleefully leaves the window edge and closes it, still staring down at Louis’ bouncy, tipsy, dishevelled form, as he tears his eyes away and tip toes down the stairs as quietly as humanly possible to let Louis in. If his uncle’s snores are anything to go by, he won’t hear a peep, but Liam is a light sleeper and will surely have something to say about Louis creeping up the stairs with Harry at this hour.

As soon as the door’s latch is off the hook, the door is pushed open and Louis attaches his cool, whiskey and cigarette smoke scented body to Harry’s warm front. Harry’s arm instantly encircles his waist and he uses his free hand to close and lock the front door.

“I missed you,” Louis breathes hotly into his neck and Harry lets out a sigh of his own, eyes momentarily shutting before he’s tugging onto Louis’ hand and leading him quietly up the stairs to his bedroom.

When they reach it, he gestures for Louis to follow him to bed. Louis stares for a moment, his giggles having subsided and those cerulean eyes Harry loves so much entirely focus on Harry.

The air is heady, palpable around them. Harry's heart is beating overtime.

Louis swiftly takes off his jacket and toes off his shoes and socks. He pauses for a few breaths, still as a stone statue as he stares at Harry, and for one terrifying moment, Harry thinks he's going to run right back out the door. But then Louis moves his hands to his collar, disregarding his already loose tie and undoes several of his shirt buttons. He slowly removes his belt and pulls out his shirt from his trousers.

Louis then walks over to where Harry is waiting for him, and climbs into the bed, Harry holding up the covers for him to slip easily underneath.

Harry moulds his body to Louis’ as soon as he’s under the sheets and comfortably lying on his side, fitting his chest to Louis’ as his arms wrap around Louis’ smaller frame.

Louis' eyes flicker over the exposed creamy skin of Harry's open shirt. Louis' hand reaches out to tentatively smooth over his bare shoulder, face hovering ever closer the more Harry melts into Louis’ touch.

They’re silent for a stretch of time, warm, trembling breaths the only sounds filling the room, but it's never sounded louder. Harry can practically hear his blood pumping in his ears, their mouths now mere inches away from each other, intense eyes unwavering, unwilling to look at away.

“Harry,” Louis finally whispers, hand warm as it clutches the soft, fleshy skin on his hip, ghosting with intent as Louis slides his cool palm underneath Harry's loose night shirt. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, still tentative despite his hand roaming wherever it pleases, seeking out parts of Harry that are lower, lower.

“If you don’t I might have to ask you to leave my bed,” Harry jokingly whispers back, a smirk tugging his expectant, aching lips that long for Louis’ on his.

“Cheeky, you are,” Louis breathes, eyes bright and bursting with affection. "Come here."

Harry plants his right palm to the side of Louis' candid face. He's so beautiful, the moonlight illuminating the blue of his eyes. He's otherworldly. He can't take his eyes off him.

And then Louis’ closing the little gap that’s left between their faces and bodies, ankles and cold toes tangling together. Louis very deliberately lines himself up with Harry and then kisses him, firm and eager. It's less hurried and frantic than their first kisses in Niall's car, but no less passionate or yearning. He feels Louis' hand reaching behind Harry’s neck and pressing in fingers into his flesh without any hesitation, only impassioned want leading him on, pulling him forward so that they’re plush against each other.

Harry gasps as Louis both deepens the kiss and ruts against him, can feel his hardness as he rubs his groin over Harry's in purposeful movement, lets himself melt into the other boy, unable to think as Louis kisses him like he needs his mouth to breathe.

All Harry can focus on his the feel of Louis' soft lips as they drag across Harry’s jawline and follow further down his neck, mouthing hungrily at the sensitive skin and Harry arches his spine, lets his head fall back as Louis shifts.

He suddenly sits back on his haunches and once again Harry starts to momentarily panic.

"Need to get rid of these," Louis whispers, smiling at Harry like a cat that's got the cream, a hint of that mischief in his eyes that Harry adores so much. He wriggles his trousers down his legs and starts to pull at Harry's, taking them off and leaving them both in their underwear.

!Where were we?" he says lowly, moving onto his front, and draping himself over Harry's body, who's lying pliant beneath him as adrenaline and want surge through him.

He's doing this. They're doing this. Harry's giving himself up to Louis completely, this beautiful boy with the devilish grin that brought Harry back to life again.

Muffled little moans in the back of his throat escape Harry’s mouth, which in turn makes Louis groan and kiss him harder, searching for more friction as he twists his lips. Harry turns his head and watches as Louis clenches his fingers in the sheets.

It spurs Harry on, and he holds onto the hem of Louis’ shirt, tugging at it, his hands roaming under it, feeling out the planes of Louis’ back as the pads of his fingers and the backs of his palms dance over Louis' smooth, silky skin, mouth inhaling Louis' breathy shivers and the gorgeous moans that tumble from Louis' lips.

When they finally come up for breath, Harry presses his slightly clammy forehead to Louis’, listens to their uneven breaths, their chests rising and falling erratically as they get more and more worked up, skin crawling with want, an intense heat starting to pool in his lower regions.

Harry blindly fumbles with the rest of Louis’ shirt buttons until Louis’ hand closes around his wrist, the pads of his fingertips ghosting over Harry's rabbiting pulse point. Harry bites his lip as he gazes up at Louis' calm exterior but the crimson flush in his cheeks, visible even in the sparse light of the room lets him know he's as desperate as Harry.

“Let me,” he says, pecking one more chaste kiss to Harry’s pouting lips. "Hang on," he laughs. 

Without preamble, Louis rids himself of his shirt, tossing it to the side of the bed, and uses his elbows to prop himself up over Harry's heaving chest. Harry immediately does the same and drops his own to the floor.

Harry stares at Louis' skin in awe, curious hands caressing his chest and moving lower to his stomach, feeling the tensing of Louis’ muscles as they contract under Harry’s touches and strokes, gauging every twitch in Louis' unguarded face, every delicate flutter of his eyelids, as they drag and press into supple, damp flesh, and watches with fascination the way his Adam's apple bobs on a heavy swallow.

Louis looks down at him with completely open, unadulterated eyes that seek Harry's with a pure tenderness, with lustful want and maybe even...

Harry takes in a shaky breath, hands coming up to hold onto Louis' back, needing something to anchor him lest he float away.

“Louis," he breathes.

"Yes, Harry," Louis answers in a raspy voice.

"Kiss me,” he pleads, and Louis smiles unabashedly, connects his wet mouth to Harry’s awaiting, parted lips, letting himself drown in the other boy’s kiss, his scent, his cells, as Louis' weight presses Harry into the mattress, allowing himself to be pulled down, down, down, and he's drowning, deep beneath the foam of the waves until he can no longer make out the surface, willingly falling into the abyss.

Harry’s never been so happy to drown.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a listen to 'Old Money' by Lana Del Rey as it's basically this fic's theme song :) Speak to me! I'd love to know what you have to say :) x


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